


Atlas At Last

by louisandthealien



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1970s AU, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Angst, Bisexual Liam, Classic Rock, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Conspiracy Theorist Zayn, First Everything, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hitchhiking, Humor, Jealous Louis, Louis is a Queen stan, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Pansexual Zayn, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Preacher's Son Liam, References to Religion, Skinny Dipping, Southern Liam, Strangers to Friends, Weed, no one is straight tbh, questioning liam, so many shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-23 15:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 83,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisandthealien/pseuds/louisandthealien
Summary: He doesn’t know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about to become some sort of Gay Coming of Age story.Maine to California in ten days.In which Zayn’s an open-shirt hippie they meet somewhere in Ohio, Liam’s the pastor’s son running away from home, and Niall’s the number they call on the bathroom wall.It’s 1978.Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the link to the Spotify **[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1263403080/playlist/7FadxUZe14k1qo9pQcKszx)** featuring all of the songs mentioned in this fic, in order. You don't need to know the songs in order to enjoy this fic, but...they're good songs, okay? I think most people will know them anyways.
> 
> I don't think I can even begin to describe how proud I am of this fic. Thank you to [Ally aka youwill](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8201671/chapters/18788905) for being the best beta ever and literally saving this fic from google docs hell, to Becky and Kristin and Lee for being there since day 1 and reading snippets and listening to me complain about writing, and a HUGE thank you to [youngandmadeof](youngandmadeof.tumblr.com) for the BEAUTIFUL artwork for this story! Follow her on [twitter](https://twitter.com/youngandmadeof) [tumblr](youngandmadeof.tumblr.com) and [instagram](https://t.co/4QLOrU8rjr)
> 
> Enjoy :)

**⩶**

**Atlas At Last**

**⩶**  

  
[xx](https://imgbb.com/)

✘

“Hey, Lou?”

He’s in the back of the shop pretending to sort new shipment, in reality smoking and eating M&Ms, when he hears Julian calling from upfront. He pauses for half a second, the best form of acknowledgment he can muster, and then promptly returns to picking out only the reds and the blues, a smoldering joint hanging precariously from his teeth.

_“Lou!”_

He plops two reds and a blue in his mouth. He wonders if it’s just him or if they really do taste like purple.

 _“Lou!_ Fucking Christ, come here! I’ve got someone I want you to meet!”

Louis kicks his heels twice against the metal cabinet he’s sitting on, the aluminum ringing out dully, and contemplates crawling out the back window.

He doesn’t hate working at the shop. He really doesn’t. He just hates that Oli and Stan fucking off to college at the last second means that he’s working here. Still. A direct contradiction to where he’d assumed his entire life had been heading up until three damn days ago.

The maroon curtain separating the front from the back of the record shop is thrown open, an exasperated Julian glaring through.

_“Now.”_

So Louis heaves a long-suffering sigh, combs back his fringe, and hops down, resigned. Julian watches with knowing, not quite irritated eyes when he flicks the ash from the joint to the floor.

“And clean that up, dick.”

Louis just flashes him a toothy grin and steps right over it.

When he pushes through the curtain, there’s a mile’s worth of legs and a mess of curls about six steps from styled leaning up against the counter. Louis stops, joint dangling from his fingers

“Louis, this is Harry. Harry, this is that dipshit I was telling you about.”

A snatch of eyes peek out from beneath the shag of hair, cherry lips wrapped tight around a sucker. Thumb and forefinger come up to pinch the stick, and the candy slips out with a slick _pop._

ABBA of all things comes swimming out of the shop’s speakers

And for a split second Louis thinks, really and truly, _wildly_ believes, that he is in the middle of a cruelly realistic wet dream, that the shaggy haired, candy sucking boy before him is a figment of his over-sexed, nineteen year old mind and that he’s about to wake up to sticky sheets and another day of boredom.

But then Harry’s straightening up, extending his hand towards Louis to shake, and…then…suddenly, violently _sneezing_? He somehow manages to lose his footing and stumbles backwards in surprise, stray hairs getting tangled in the sucker.

For the first time in three days, Louis cracks a smile, a funny fuzzy feeling spreading in his chest. Whether it’s from the burnt out joint in his hand or the blushing boy in front of him is hard to tell, but he’s got a funny feeling it’s probably a combination of the both.

Julian barks out a laugh. “Alright there, H?”

Harry merely chuckles embarrassedly and pretends to fuss with the hem of his shirt. Louis, in turn, pretends not to notice the pink tinge to Harry’s cheeks and leans back against the wall, arms crossed expectantly, hazy smile tugging at his lips.

“So. Lou.” Julian begins, lazily sliding down onto the rickety stool next to the register. “Harry here tells me he likes Queen.”

✘✘

“Are— you— _kidding me,”_ Louis repeats for the umpteenth time, dazed. It’s fifteen minutes later and they’re outside on Kenzie Street, cicadas whirring high above in the trees, ice cream truck tinkling its song a few blocks over, and Louis can’t help but say it again, heels  of his sneakers scuffing across the sidewalk with every slow, disbelieving drag of his feet. “Are you _kidding_ me.” Because they’re in Brunswick, Maine, population five thousand, and three days ago his best friends in the entire world (title now up for debate) bailed on him, left him to rot here in this stupid, cicada infested, ice cream truck inhabited, _boring as shit_ town even though they had _plans._ Had had plans for weeks. Months. Years. (Essentially.)

“I know, man,” Harry shrugs lightly. His voice is deep and slow and Louis doesn’t understand how he can possibly be so calm right now because— “I was heading out of town anyways.” But that doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. Not in the slightest.

Louis rounds on him, a second wave of disbelief surging back up. “You’re really going to drive all the way to California to see Queen?” he demands. “Why?”

Harry shrugs and looks down at his feet. “Same reason as you probably.”

And that’s just patently untrue. “Last winter, I called in forty two times in a single day to 91.1 just to request ‘Killer Queen,’” Louis says seriously. Harry’s laughs. “I’m serious!” It’s absolutely vital that Harry understand this. “I would— fuck, listen, dude, I have listened to every single Queen song at least a hundred times over. _At least._ ” Harry just chuckles again, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation. Louis crosses his arms. “What’s your favorite song and why?” he asks firmly.

“‘Liar,’” Harry responds immediately.

Louis’ mouth opens and shuts. “‘Liar?’” he verifies suspiciously.

Harry nods, and Louis can see individual curls bob back and forth. “Six minutes of God on Earth. I scream the whole thing every time.”

And Louis just— fuck— what the _fuck_. ‘Liar,’ off the 1973 masterpiece _Queen,_ a work commonly regarded in Louis’ mind as revolutionary, nay _sacred,_ is Louis’ favorite Queen song of all time. He’d had to buy a new cassette because he literally _wore_ _the tape out_ rewinding back to ‘Liar’ so many times.

Louis doesn’t believe in fate. He doesn’t believe in destiny and he doesn’t believe in the cosmos and fortune and _what’s meant to be will be._ He doesn’t.

But the universe somehow made damn sure that lanky legged, floppy curled Harry from Freeport, the _boring as shit_ town two miles over, stumbled into the record shop owned by his Louis’ boss, Julian Bunetta, this clear morning, July the 12th, in the Year of Our Lord 1978.

And the universe somehow made damn sure that lanky legged, floppy curled Harry casually mentioned to Julian that he was thinking of heading out to California as soon as possible. On July 12th, 1978. Also known as the day before July 13th, 1978, the day Louis had been planning to skip town with Stan and Oli ever since they saw a tour roster advertising July 22nd/San Francisco as the last US stop for Queen, the greatest, most holy band known to man.

And whether or not Louis has the universe to thank for lanky legged, floppy curled Harry enthusiastically agreeing to roll out with him, Louis truly doesn’t know. But he’s just so fucking _happy_ that he feels like he needs to thank _someone_.

So he stops dead, smack in the middle of the sidewalk on Kenzie Street in _boring as shit_ Brunswick, Maine, and spreads his arms wide, yelling out to the sky a huge, giddy _“Fucking Thank You!”_ that he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed for, not even in front of lanky legged, floppy curled Harry, who’s looking on with flagrant amusement, smile stuck somewhere between elation and apprehension.

His arms drop and he sort of forgets where he is for a heartbeat, almost expecting Stan and Oli to be standing there awkwardly, doing that thing where they exchange a knowing _look_ in response to this sort of dramatics. But then he turns his head, breath settling, and it’s Harry’s eye he catches.

Harry just scratches his nose with the side of his thumb and grins. “I know, man. I know.” His own laughing eyes turning up to the sky. “Feeling’s mutual.”

✘✘

“So, Harry,” Louis begins. “I feel like if I’m about to embark on a cross country adventure in pursuit of Freddie Mercury with you, I should probably know your last name.” He takes a sip of his purple slushy and holds open the gas station door, letting Harry pass through first.

“Styles,” Harry says, corner of his mouth crooking up. “You?”

Louis cracks a grin and nicks one of the greasy fries out of the little paper basket Harry’s holding. “Tomlinson. Most people call me Tommo, actually.”

Harry picks up a fry of his own. “You don’t seem like a Tommo to me,” he says, popping it in his mouth solemnly. “I like Louis.” He chews for a moment. “Or Lou.”

“Yeah?” Louis arches an eyebrow. “So we’re gonna be those kind of friends? You don’t call me what everyone else does, gotta have your own special little name?”

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “Totally. Because Lou’s such a special, _original_ nickname. No one’s _ever_ called you that before, I’m sure.”

Louis slurps his slushy in dignified silence. “Maybe not. You don’t know my life.”

“Touché.” Harry gives him a middle finger salute and then, “speaking of which-- what’s the deal, man? What happened to make all your buddies abandon their _Tommo?”_

Louis shrugs, dipping a fry in the puddle of ketchup Harry slathered onto the side of the basket. “Decided an education meant more than a Queen concert or some equally reasonable bullshit.” He expects Harry to laugh or justify their actions, to call them losers or just— _something._ He expects _something_.

He doesn’t expect silence.

It stretches on for a few seconds before Louis realizes Harry is patiently waiting for him to continue.

“It— er— I mean I get that it’s their choice or whatever…” he continues awkwardly, thrown off. “I guess it just mostly sucks that they waited ’til the last possible second to break it to me. And I mean like, it’s not even really the fact that _they_ specifically weren’t coming, if that makes sense?” he adds. “I literally love Queen so much I would’ve driven to California all alone. I honestly don’t give a shit about that… But like, I wasn’t gonna be able to swing the gas money all by myself or whatever. So that’s where they fucked me over. Plus we’d been saying forever that we were gonna go so I guess I just thought it was like…more serious than that. It always was for me at least.” He fiddles with the  straw of his slushy. “…you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry finally agrees. “Yeah, I can’t even imagine. Like, I get that they did what they had to do, but they could’ve like…not fucked you over? Kinda seems like a dick move.” He shifts around for a second and then, “But hey! You’ve got a gas money buddy now! All’s right in the world!”

Louis just smiles and kicks his heels against the cement. He’s about to respond with some inane comment when he pauses. “Wait—” he starts, suddenly embarrassed by his own self-absorbedness. “I don’t know how I haven’t even asked this yet. Why were you planning on going to California?”

Harry just waves a hand dismissively, and his hair falls in front of his eyes when he reaches down to fiddle with his shoelace. “Just felt like it, I guess,” he says quickly. “Queen’s as good an excuse as any.” Louis can’t really argue with his rationale, so he just hums quietly in agreement. When Harry sits up, he’s a little pink around the cheeks, and Louis gets the sudden urge to tease him a little for it— which is uncalled for at least, and fucking weird at most.

But then, _“So,”_ Harry asks airly, saving Louis from himself. “How long’d you guys been planning this for anyways?”

✘✘

An hour later and they’re at a picnic table at the park down the corner from Louis’ parent’s house and it’s fucking _hot_ outside, which is totally unheard of for Maine. Louis’s pretty sure his t-shirt’s splotched with sweat in the back, but then, Harry’s is too. And the fries have made him pretty thirsty and his ass hurts like hell from the hard metal of the bench, but at the same time Louis isn’t _overtly_ disgruntled because—

At first he couldn’t place it. The conversation just kept winding and weaving and there was laughter and only one or two comfortable, legitimately not at all awkward, silences, and Louis hasn’t really even had to dig around to figure out what to say to keep the conversation flowing. It just keeps tumbling out, back and forth, in an array of jokes and stories and questions.

It’s sometime during what he’s sure is an entirely too detailed story about how he got hired at the record store that Louis realizes Harry’s actually listening to him.

Like full on listening.

With interest.

He’s not— Louis doesn’t even know how to explain it.

He’s just listening and they aren’t just talking about weed and getting drunk or reliving last week’s party. The usual shit him and his friends talk about.

The attention sort of burns, sharp, then dull. It’s a little like a spotlight, too bright and too hot, shining right down on Louis in a way that must be second-nature for Harry, what with the way he’s slouched backwards on bench, arms propped up behind him on the rickety table, casual, casual, casual.

“I feel like we’re going to get along great,” Harry says suddenly, filling the momentary silence with gentle, lazy ease. It’s honest and happy and if Louis feels like a moth beside a light, Harry seems like he feels it right on back, which should be impossible. It should be _impossible_.

But Louis’ not an idiot, he’s just stunned and a little off-kilter, and it feels good. It feels okay. He’s found a friend, he thinks. He’s found a friend, and they’re going to see Queen.

✘✘

By the time a real silence falls between them, the sky has fallen to navy tinged with orange and the lightening bugs are out in full force. Louis’ ass is officially asleep and his entire styrofoam cup has been picked to pieces before him, so he figures their time at the park should probably be drawing to a close. He also knows that he’s let the conversation go on entirely too long— has literally agreed to drive across the country with this complete stranger— and he hasn’t clued him in yet on what could potentially be a pretty lame deal breaker.

He bats halfheartedly at a flickering lightning bug and lets out a resigned sort of sigh. Might as well just get it over with.

“So, um,” he begins. “I’m gay. Just so you know.”

It never gets any easier.

“So like…” He’s normally a bit more assertive at this point-- not that it’s a point he’s been at very often before-- finds that acting like it’s not a big deal is usually the best course of action. But he’s just— he’s nervous. With Harry he’s nervous. “So like, if you’re a homophobic bag of dicks…or…well, okay, maybe more of a homophobic bag of cunts in this situation,” he rambles, palms prickling, “then yeah. Just putting that out there.” He tries to say the last part with some semblance of defiance, maintain just a shred of his bravado, but his voice cracks on the last syllable. A rush of pink floods to his cheeks.

The silence from before stretches on and Louis’ got snakes in his stomach, writhing around and screaming because he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Shouldn’t have hung out all afternoon and told all those stupid stories and convinced himself that he was finally going out to Cali, that he’d be seeing Queen in ten days and that everything was going to work out. He should’ve just been upfront. Probably even way back in the shop. Just gotten the hard part out of the way and not dicked around all afternoon for nothing.

“Right,” he finally says, grimly dragging his eyes up to Harry’s.

Except Harry doesn’t look…upset? Not really. Not upset, or angry, or weirded out— not at all. Weird, yes. But not weirded out.

Another moment or so passes and Louis is about to get up and leave, but then Harry’s doing one of those goofy frowns that aren’t quite frowns— like he’s shrugging his lips or something, Louis thinks wildly— and he’s raising an eyebrow in a way that Louis interprets as a _good to know._

And then finally _(finally)_ Harry says, “Okay.”

And that’s that.

✘✘

That wasn’t that.

✘✘

They’re in Louis’ driveway, staring at a yellow and orange piece of shit that had the audacity to be marketed as a van.

“This is the Garbage Truck, ” Louis says solemnly, “and she’s our ride for the next ten days.”

“This is sick!” Harry breathes, running his fingertips over the tinted windows, eyes wide. “Is it unlocked?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Louis nods. “I never even bother to lock it. I figure if someone wants it that bad, they can have it, but—” Harry’s already sliding the side door open and clamoring inside on his hands and knees.

“What are you talking about! Look at this! It’s fucking awesome!” he moans, swiveling around to take in the ugly, red shag carpet Stan had donated to the cause sometime last spring. They’d taken all the seats out in an effort to make the van seem ‘cool’ and hadn’t at all stolen the idea from Bobby Tuttle and his friends. Louis doesn’t quite know what it is about the Garbage Truck that Harry can possibly deem as fucking awesome, considering that, besides the carpet, it’s pretty much just an empty heap of metal that smells vaguely of weed and french fries. He smiles anyways, pleased despite himself that Harry’s excited.

“Why the Garbage Truck?”

“Well,” Louis begins proudly, “there’s no AC and no clock. The gas gauge doesn’t work, and sometimes it makes weird chirping noises at red lights.” He stuffs his hands on his pockets. “Oh, and you can only get the engine to start if you hum the piano part to ‘Layla’, so you know. The usual.” Harry shoots him a look that clearly says _fuck off_ , but Louis just laughs. “Also, one time the brakes went out on me over by that one creepy factory on the side of Prospect Highway— that one that’s always like abandoned-looking and shit? But it was just the once so that might’ve had more to do with demonic forces or something,” he adds thoughtfully.

Harry flips him off and snorts, turning away to examine the interior curiously.

“Still game to drive this death trap across the country?” Louis laughs again, trying to come off as snarky and unaffected rather than completely and unfairly charmed. “Forgot that we’ve got to drive this shit over like eighteen sets of mountains or…?”

Harry spins around at that, bracing himself with one hand on one of the captain seats, the other stretched across the door frame.

“Mountains,” he repeats dumbly, as if it’s a totally foreign concept. “We’re gonna cross the mountains.”

“Yeah?”

He throws himself back dramatically, legs splaying through the door. “Fuck YES!”

“Scoot over, Mr. Explorer,” Louis chuckles, pushing Harry’s legs off to the side so that he has room to sit in the doorway.

“So am I Clark, then?” Harry suddenly asks, completely sprawled out. His hair’s all over the place— on the ground. In his eyes. A single curl is dangerously close to getting stuck in his mouth.

“What?” Louis asks, confused. Without thinking, he reaches to brush the hair away from Harry’s lips, but quickly pulls away.

Harry merely smiles and lets out a huge puff of air. The curl bounces up and then right back down again, and he sputters, laughing. “Like Louis and Clark!”

Louis rolls his eyes in understanding. “It’s _Lewis_ and Clark. Duh,” he pokes the side of his thigh. “Didn’t you pay attention in History?”

“No,” he replies seriously. “Why? Did you?”

“Enough to know who Lewis and Clark are at least.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He’s still just laying there. Except now he’s sort of lolled his head to the side, chin almost tucked into his shoulder, eyes peaking out from behind the strands of loose curls.

They’re sitting together, hanging out, just like at the park. But there’s an obvious lack of picnic table separating them now and Louis’ not sure why he’s so acutely aware of that, but it’s suddenly all he can think about. His thigh’s about two inches from Harry’s, and it’s like he’s got their first encounter from back in the record shop— long legs. curly hair. lollipop—on loop in his mind. He wants to slap himself because literally not even a _half hour_ ago he’d come out to Harry  (And gotten a perfectly adequate ‘okay.’ Which.) So the fact that he’s sitting here, undeniably wallowing in Harry’s overwhelming cuteness is just so not ideal. Not twelve hours before their massive, young-life changing road trip.

He’s gotta get out of there.

“Um,” he mumbles, leg suddenly bouncing like it always used to do before a particularly daunting math test. “Well, I should probably head in now. Get some sleep…big day tomorrow and everything…”

Harry blinks a couple of times. Louis can see the individual lashes batting against the spray of curls draped against them. “Yeah…”

And then he sits up straight, no hesitations, no pauses, and kisses Louis right on the lips.

✘✘

He’s just had his first kiss. He’s just had his first kiss, and all Louis can think about is how fucking _hot_ it is inside the van, the matted shag of the carpet sticking uncomfortably to the palms of his hands as they prop him up.

Not a thought a passes through Louis’ mind. Not a single one. He’s not capable.

“So, um, I’ll see you tomorrow at seven then?” Louis asks awkwardly, ruffling a hand through the back of his sweaty hair. He watches as Harry casually adjusts the collar of his t-shirt and runs a hand through his frizzed out curls.

He sort of feels like he’s been struck by lightning.

“Yeah, sure!” Harry grins. He scooches towards the open door and hops out, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and wiping away the remnants of Louis’ first ever make out session before he’s even had time to process it.

Louis blinks blankly.

There was tongue. Like. A half a second of it. Does that count as a make out session? Louis doesn’t know; the last two minutes (Two minutes? Two hours? Two seconds?) are his only frame of reference.

Thoroughly dazed and not entirely sure if he is awake, dreaming, or stone cold dead, Louis watches Harry stroll down the drive and off past the front bushes, lightening bugs blinking in the night.

As he watches his figure fade off into the darkness, getting smaller and smaller, he realizes that they never even planned a single part of the trip at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**⩶**

**3,223 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

It’s 5 AM and quiet outside. Their house doesn’t have AC, so the windows are perpetually open, which means Louis can usually count on a steady stream of cars honking and dogs barking to wake him up at the worst possible time, but for once he’s gotten up on his own, no barking or honking. All he can hear is the gentle  _ tick tick tick _ of the neighbor’s sprinkler and his mother’s sniffles as she busies herself at the stove, pretending she’s not trying not to cry.

“Mom, I—“ he stops and starts. They’re the first words he’s spoken all morning and he’s already not sure of what else to say.

“Here you go, baby,” she finally says, loading up a plate with pancakes and eggs for him. He’s not sure when the last time she made him breakfast was— when the last time she’d even been  _ home _ for breakfast even, usually still on the last leg of her night shift at the hospital.

Her eyes are damp, smile watery when she sets the plate down, but Louis just forces out a “thanks,” and tucks in, doing his best to fight off the guilt bubbling up his throat.

They sit in silence as they eat, the  _ tick tick tick _ of the sprinkler filling up the room, meshing into something else. A clock, maybe. Counting down the minutes before he goes. Or a bomb, waiting for just the right second to explode, sending everything here to shit like he’s afraid it will the second he’s gone.

Not that Louis’d ever been, like, responsible for anything besides helping out around the house, really. He’d only started working at the shop for something to do, just like any other teenager— to buy a car, have money for beer and weed. Fund a trip to California. Whatever.

But he _is_ the oldest, and there are a lot of little ones running around all the time, so he’s always been the de facto babysitter for as long as he can remember, the same story as any other kid from a big family. And even though Lottie is almost fourteen now, older than he was when he started watching everyone, it’s still a weird feeling to know that they’ll be on their own soon. That he’ll be leaving his mom all alone. 

Not alone, he tells himself. She’s got Dan The Boyfriend now, too. And with that, he tells his conscious to shut up.

He looks up from his eggs to ask his mom to pass the ketchup, but she’s already watching him, tears definitely sliding down her cheeks now.

“Mom—“

“Oh, stop,” she shushes him, passing the bottle without even being asked.”I’m not crying because I want you to stay.” He hazily wonders what he’d do if she did. “I know how much this means to you, Boo Bear,” she says softly, and he knows without her having to spell it out that she doesn’t just mean the concert. That her thoughts have drifted towards a certain late-night cry fest featuring a terrified confession not so many years ago:

_ Mom...I think I’m gay. _

She pats his arm soothingly. Louis loves her so much he could die.

“I just want you to stay safe…and call me if you need anything,” she adds, laughing weakly. “Not that I’ll be much help from all the way out here, but…”

Louis laughs back quietly and pushes his food around his plate.

“You’re sure this kid you’re going with is alright?” she asks for the twentieth time since he’d explained the situation last night.

He shrugs. “If he’s not, it’ll be Julian’s fault,” he jokes, mouth full, and tries his best to not think about Harry, to keep all thoughts of the soft lips and first kisses that had kept him up all night as far away from his mom as possible.

They’re both quiet then, and Louis’ eaten about as much as his nervously churning stomach can hold.

“I’ll miss you, mom.”

“I’ll miss you too, Louis,” she replies, reaching across the table to hold his hand. “What time are you two leaving again?”

He’s grateful that she knows not to ask when he’ll be back.

✘✘

It’s not until Louis’ slouched on his front stoop outside, watching as Harry’s gangly, blurry figure comes into view from down the street, that the reality and bizarreness of last night truly dawns on him.

Harry’d kissed him. First-kiss kissed him. And now, for the first time ever, Louis is actively panicking about his love life— which until yesterday evening at approximately 9:30 PM EST had been entirely nonexistent.

He doesn’t know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about to become some sort of Gay Coming of Age story. 

He’s never met another boy who kisses boys before. He’s never had someone want to kiss him and actually want to kiss them back. The whole situation is suddenly seeming a whole lot more terrifying than monumental.

Harry waves when he sees him on the steps and Louis’ stomach flips itself inside out before he can stop it. He swallows hard and tells himself to get a grip. 

The air’s stupidly humid and his jeans are sticking to his legs uncomfortably, but Louis forces himself to grin up at Harry and ask, “What’s with the box?” as if he isn’t at all feeling like a goober, surrounded by two duffel bags when all Harry’s brought with him is a flat backpack and a carton.

Harry smiles and although it comes off as antsy and excited, it’s only just the slightest bit nervous, which is definitely more than Louis can say.  “Oh, um, I brought my tapes?” he offers brightly, shifting the box to his hip with one hand. 

So Harry’s into music. Enough to have enough tapes to fill a whole box. He’s not sure why he’s so surprised— they met in a record shop and are literally driving across America for a concert—but all the same, Louis’ lip quirks. “What about clothes? Not necessary?”

Harry shrugs the shoulder with the backpack hanging off it. “I’ve got like…underwear and a couple t-shirts stuffed in here.” The lousy fucker doesn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed. 

Louis feels a weird sort of twist in his stomach— a rush of  _ how does this guy make barely changing your clothes sound cute? _ mixed with a chorus of Oli and Stan’s taunting voices:  _ try-hard, try-hard, Louis you  _ fucking _ try hard! _

But snark is what Louis knows and snark is how Louis has always made friends. So he clamors to his feet and slings both of his bags over his shoulder with the ease that only a lifetime of trying to convince others that you care less than you actually do can produce. “If you start smelling, I’m tossing you in a river along the way, Curly.” 

He’s pretty sure he can hear Harry’s grin when he follows behind him to the van. “I make no promises. And don’t call me Curly!”

✘✘

The Garbage Truck sits buzzing, idling in the driveway. Their bags, singular for Harry, plural for Louis, lay haphazard in the back. The box of tapes rests in the empty space between the front seats.

Harry’s got one foot planted on the cabin floor, the other hitched up underneath him, and he looks at Louis with a relaxed sort of expectancy as he rolls down his window, getting comfortable. “Ok,” he inhales deeply. “So.”

Louis shifts into reverse, subtly (not at all subtly) throwing his arm over the back of Harry’s seat as he turns around to look out the back window. “Ok. So,” he parrots. He makes a left out of the drive— they’re leaving.  _ Holy— _ and he should probably move his arm now (it’s stretched awkwardly across the gap) but his mind tells him it was a smooth move (it was not) so he lets himself enjoy it another three seconds before shifting away. “First stop: gas station,” he says, glancing at Harry with a small smile. “Need a map.”

“A  _ map?” _ Harry immediately squawks. “W—you don’t already have a map?” He squirms in his seat, leaning in closer, indignant. “You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”

No. Not really. Co-pilot was supposed to be Stan’s job. 

Louis shrugs, going for aloof. Mysterious. “Maybe.” Harry’s reproving glare softens, a hint of a dimple popping up as his eyes scrunch slightly in amusement, all traces of his already questionable nervousness long gone.  Alright. So maybe Louis’ not the mysterious type.

Louis sticks his tongue out and hits the turn signal with one hand, the other reaching down to pick through the tapes as they sit at a stoplight. “Don’t worry,” he promises, “Oli and I looked it up once in the library a while back.”

This is a lie. 

They’d once ambled into the Dryden High School library asking for an atlas, but the narrow eyed librarian at the desk had been a roaring bitch and told them to go back to class. This could possibly be attributed to their red eyes and giggles, but either way, Stan had later asked his geography teacher how far he thought it was from Maine to California, so.

“It’s like around three thousand miles or something.”

Harry gives him an odd look as they pull into the gas station, but Louis just sticks his tongue out again. “And that’s the extent of your planning?” Harry asks dryly. Louis makes a noncommittal noise and parks, unabashed.

“What?” He swings his door open and hops out. “What else is there? We get a map, follow the lines, and bam! We’re in front of Queen, Freddie realizes I’m his one true love, you shack up with whatever exponentially less attractive band member your heart desires, and we all live happily ever after.”

Harry chuckles as he trails behind him into the store. “I don’t know. I just assumed you’d, like…at least know how much we’re gonna spend on gas and shit. Wasn’t that, like, your primary concern?”

Louis pauses for a moment, considering his words, and continues on with a “Hmmpf.” They stop in front of a wobbly metal stand stuffed with all different size maps and guides. “Three thousand miles,” he reasons easily, fingering through the stacks. “Gas is like…sixty cents a gallon? What’s three thousand divided by sixty?” he turns to Harry and raises a brow.

Harry smirks. “I don’t think that’s how that works.”

So? They’ll just figure it out along the way. “Relax,” Louis rolls his eyes, finally selecting a map at random and wheeling around to the snack aisle. “It’ll be fine.”

“Three thousand miles…how many miles to the gallon does your van get?” Harry asks thoughtfully, following close behind.

Louis laughs loudly. “The Garbage Truck? Probably like fifteen on a good day with some wind pushing it along…” He’s got three Mars Bars, a bag of pretzels, and sixteen packets of M&Ms in his hands; he cranes his head, looking for the soda fridge. It’s not in it’s usual spot. They must’ve moved it recently. Louis hates that he knows that.

But Harry’s apparently some sort of human calculator, mindlessly gathering up random snacks as he thinks. “So that’d be three thousand divided by fifteen, right? And fifteen goes into thirty twice, so like…two hundred?”

“What?” Louis blinks. He usually skipped math because it was the same hour as Stan’s lunch.

“Two hundred gallons of gas?” Harry offers. “And if we say gas is sixty cents, that leaves us at like…$120 to make it out there? Maybe less. Does the van really only get fifteen miles to the gallon?”

There’s a part of Louis that fundamentally  knows that all Harry did was some simple math— shit, he honestly probably could’ve worked out himself if there weren’t other more pressing matters on his mind, like Coke vs. Mountain Dew— but he’s kind of stupidly impressed all the same.

He sort of wants to kiss Harry right now. Like, right in the middle of the only gas station in town, underneath the sickly fluorescent lights and with the cashier, Mr. Grier from two blocks over, watching from across the room. The stupid fucker knows how to do basic division and Louis wants to kiss him for it.

This is definitely becoming a Gay Coming of Age Story.

He settles on, “Okay. But you’re paying more than half!”

✘✘

When they get back to the Garbage Truck, Louis unceremoniously tosses his bag of snacks in Harry’s lap with a, “Here— hold this, would ya?” and grabs for the map, flipping it open to the country-wide page immediately.

“We’ve gotta get over to 95, first of all,” Harry says casually, dumping the plastic bags onto the floor by his feet. “I think if we just take Townline over for like…I don’t know? Like maybe an hour, or something, we’ll probably end up hitting it.” 

Louis’ eyes are roving over the web of lines and circles spread across the page, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Harry twist around in his seat, reaching for something in the back. “What are you looking for?” he asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. Harry’s more or less out of his seat at this point, so when Louis looks down, he’s met with an excellent view of Harry’s denim-clad ass shimmying slightly back and forth as he rummages around. More than distracted, Louis’ hand hesitates over the gear stick.

“Just—looking for, um— okay, here we go.” Harry comes bobbing back up, baggie in hand.

“Ahhh,” Louis grins understandingly. “Alright, then. I like where this is going.” 

Harry winks, letting the bag drop into his lap. “But  _ first  _ first…” he says leadingly. He leans over a bit again, rifling around through the tape box between them. He must know exactly where what he’s looking for is because after just a moment he’s up again, sliding a cassette into the stereo.

“Stereo’s probably the only thing in this piece of shit that works one hundred percent,” Louis comments, finally, finally shifting into reverse and heading out. 

The tape whirrs for a moment, and then the light strumming of an acoustic guitar starts spilling out. “This song always makes me feel like I’m in the beginning of a movie,” Harry announces, kicking his legs up so his ankles rest on the dash. He lays the closed map book across his lap and opens the dime bag with practiced fingers.

Louis watches him out of the corner of his eye. “ **‘** Mrs. Robinson **’** makes you feel like you’re in the beginning of a movie?” he smirks. “Just  _ a _ movie? Not, you know,  _ The Graduate? _ ” Harry blushes and Louis raises an eyebrow. “ _ Really?”  _ he teases. “Isn’t that the one where the guy sleeps with his girlfriend’s mom or something? Anything you wanna tell me, Harry?” Harry opens his mouth to protest, a peal of laughter spilling from his mouth, but Louis cuts him off with a serious look. “I hate to break it to you, pal, but I’m only like— wait, how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Harry giggles.

“Right,” Louis nods like that settles it. “I’m only like a year older than you. So…” he draws it out, biting back the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t think I’m quite old enough to be your Mrs. Robinson—“

“Lou!”

“—childless, too,” he adds ruefully. He cocks his head to the side and shoots Harry a furtive look. “Sorry. I can still seduce you, though. No worries.” He freezes then, fingers tight on the wheel. He feels himself go red and trains his eyes hard on the road, but Harry’s just about in tears from laughing so hard, so Louis laughs too, more than willing to play it off as a joke.

“No!” Harry finally manages, brushing a tear from the corner of his eye. His fingers have been working deftly throughout the whole exchange, but Louis’ surprised all the same when he lifts the neatly rolled joint to his lips, lighter in hand.

“Already?” Louis raises an eyebrow. “I’m liking you more and more every minute, Curly.”

Harry holds the smoke in deep before exhaling slowly, head leaned flat against the seat. “I just meant the song itself,” he says, easily picking the thread of the conversation back up. “Like…” he pauses and reaches forward to rewind the tape a few seconds. He releases the button and the song starts again, the soft, bouncy melody streaming through the speakers. “The guitar,” he begins again, “and like…the strumming pattern. And then the  _ de de de de de de de de,” _ he sings along in a high pitched voice. “It just like sounds like the beginning of something—“

“The song maybe?” Louis offers, eyebrow raised.

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry snorts, drumming his fingers against the window sill in time with the steady beat. “No! It sounds like the beginning of… _ Something _ . Like…that feeling of anticipation when a movie starts, you know? That’s what I meant.”

That same antsy excitement from earlier returns to his eyes, and the nervousness is there too, Louis thinks-- hopes-- and it might be just a little bit stronger than before.

It might be the moment to say something, like—  _ you sure you’re good? _ or, _ dude, I can’t believe this is happening.  _ Something for both of them to grab onto, because this is big and crazy and, yeah, even a little bit scary.

But Harry just raises the joint to hips again and smiles out the window as Brunswick melts away in their wake.

Louis reaches forward to start the song again.

✘✘

The thing about driving is that it’s boring. It’s boring no matter what— no matter even if you’re pleasantly buzzed and there’s a cute boy in the passenger’s seat willing to pick out all the blue and red M&Ms for you without complaint. Trees and roads are boring. Also, Simon and Garfunkel are boring. It’s time to turn that off.

Louis reaches into the box and pulls out a tape at random, glancing at the name. “The Supremes? The fuck?” he tosses it and grabs another, barely reading the title before ditching it as well. “Christ, Curly. You brought an entire box of tapes! Don’t you have anything good?”

Harry makes a grumpy noise from behind the stubby joint he’s still sucking on. “Hey!” he mumbles, pulling off. Louis tosses  _ Johnny Cash: Greatest Hits _ at his face.

“I want Queen. We’re on a Queen road trip and there is a disturbing lack of Queen.” 

Harry murmurs something like assent and starts lazily shuffling through the tapes. He’s usually so bright and chatty; the weed lulls him a bit. Not in a bad way. In a cozy, relaxed way.

Louis, on the other hand, is generally known to get the giggles about three drags in. Tends to ramble and think, brain sludging forward through streams of ideas and stories. So even though Harry’s been looking through the tapes for far too long now, Louis can’t bring himself to get snippy, just lets out another burst of laughter when Harry’s slow, syrupy voice mumbles that there is  _ definitely  _ no shortage of queens in this car.

“ _ Queen?” _ he finally offers. “As in their album  _ Queen.” _  The black tape swings between his thumb and forefinger.

“Good choice,” Louis nods sagely. “Back to basics.” Harry slides the tape in and Louis adds, “we should listen to their whole discography. Like. Straight through. I’ve got the others back there,” he nods towards his bag in the back.

So they do.

_ Queen  _ turns into  _ Queen II _ which turns into  _ Sheer Heart Attack _ and then  _ A Night at the Opera _ , and even though they’ve long stopped smoking (Louis hours before Harry, driving and all) sometime during  _ A Day at the Races _ they end up watching the clouds, picking out shapes and animals against the coral-tinted sky.

“That one right there’s a horse,” Harry points. He rolled up the sleeves of his t-shirt at some point, and Louis is fairly sure that the extra inch or two isn’t really winning any battles against the Garbage Truck’s nonexistent AC system, but the shiny swell of skin he can see out of the corner of his eye keeps him from pointing that out.

His eyes flicker from the road to the spot Harry’s pointing at. “That’s not a horse,” he shakes his head. One hand on the wheel, the other runs through his fringe. “It’s a very fat bird.”

Harry makes a displeased noise. “ _ You’re _ a fat— hey! Look! There’s a dildo!” Louis’ eyes follow his finger. Sure enough, a pointedly phallic cloud is up and to their left.

“You’re a fucking moron,” he squeezes out between breathless laughs.

He doesn’t know anything about Harry, really. Doesn’t know what he likes to eat or why he’s going to California. What he likes to do for fun or what he’s planning to do after all this. But around the time Louis estimates they’ve probably hit a quarter tank, they’re another drag or two into a second joint and Louis’ forgets to wonder if any of that even matters.

Harry grabs his hand when he points out a particularly convincing dragon. Louis just giggles and doesn’t realize until twenty minutes later that Harry’s fingers are still resting on his. 

So now he knows what Harry’s hands feel like in his. 

At least he knows that.

✘✘

Dinner is greasy burgers at Bob’s Diner two hours into New York state. They’re both still just barely buzzed— Harry probably, definitely more than Louis— but they’ve already nearly depleted their morning snack stash, so the burgers go somewhat uneaten. Either way, it’s a chance to stretch their legs, and Louis doesn’t think he could ever pass up the opportunity to stare at Harry for longer than one second increments. 

“So what did your old man say about all this?” Louis suddenly asks, kicking under the table at Harry’s ankles. “Just realized I never asked.”

Harry’s got fries in his mouth. He takes a second to chew and swallow and then carefully says, “My mom...wasn’t thrilled. But.” He looks down at the table and offers a one shoulder shrug.

The pointed omission of the ‘old man’ Louis’d asked after isn’t missed, and he feels his cheeks go vaguely red, immediately reading the signs. He always hated it when people unwittingly made reference to his own father. 

“But,” Harry says suddenly, in a voice too bright for his previous comment, “you can’t live for your parents, can you? So…” He spreads his palms as if to say,  _ here I am. _

He doesn’t really know what to say, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he’s only known Harry for about twenty-four hours. Isn’t sure if he’s a push it or leave it guy.

So, he offers: “My mom definitely wasn’t happy, either.” Harry’s brows pinch together momentarily, and Louis gets the impression that their situations might not be exactly the same. He’s aims for  _ ‘Moms _ , Am I right?’ with the laugh he tacks on at the end. 

Harry’s lip quirks, but Louis makes a mental note all the same: do not bring up Moms again.

✘✘

The weird thing is— and Louis almost sort of feels bad for being expectant— they don’t kiss all day. Not once. Not even when they pull off to the edge of the road at 10 PM and tumble into the backseat, use Louis’ bags for pillows and lay sweating on the shag carpet in the summer heat.

Louis has his space and Harry has his.

It’s not a bad space. It’s not an awkward space.

It’s just—  _ there _ .

Cars zoom past them into the night. 


	3. Chapter 3

**⩶**

**2460 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

Louis wakes up the next morning with an elbow in his face. Like, not even a cute, cuddly, ‘my arm is around you, just in a mildly bad position,’ sort of way. No. Harry’s knobby little elbow is doing whatever it can to wedge itself into Louis’ eye socket.

All things considered, there are worse ways to wake up.

“ _Get—_ ” A garbled, croaky groan tumbles from Louis’ mouth as he shoves Harry away.

“Hmm?” Harry’s voice is low and sleepy. Louis finally succeeds in rolling over halfway, wrinkling his nose at the feeling of humid sweat sticking to his t-shirt. Harry’s elbow’s taken up place on his own face now, the crook essentially resting just above the bridge of his nose. Eyes covered, he smacks his lips once or twice, obviously still asleep. Louis sort of wants to burrow his face into the space under his chin. He restrains himself. Barely.

“Hey.” He kicks his knee forward, nudging Harry’s thigh. No sign of life. The watch on Harry’s dangling wrist reads 9:00 AM. “ _Hey_ ,” he kicks again, more forcefully this time. Another sleepy moan slips from Harry’s mouth, and he rolls over, body twisting into what has to be an uncomfortable position. Louis’ stretched out on his side, and Harry’s nose is now all but pressed smack up against his chest.

He feels a puff of hot air through his t-shirt and is forced to physically close his eyes and count to ten, unsure of what emotion he’s so vividly feeling.

Another puff of air sets his arm hair on end. “Need coffee,” Harry mumbles.

“Look who’s alive,” he replies, voice much softer than his ‘heys’ from before.

“Coffee,” Harry repeats, unmoving.

“Uh,” Louis shifts, lifting his torso up to peer out the window. They’d pulled off in the middle of nowhere the evening before. Hadn’t really considered getting to a ‘good’ stopping point, just stopped when Louis’ eyes started burning with sleep. “I don’t know how close we are to a diner or anything, H.” A single brownish car flies past.

“Coffee.” Harry’s nose is now pressed _firmly_ against Louis’ chest.

For a brief moment, Louis contemplates what he would do if at some point during this trip Oli or Stan had sleepily demanded coffee over and over again.

Probably kick them in the nads.

With a deep sigh, he clamors to his knees and into the front seat. Harry just rolls onto his tummy, hair a complete bird’s nest, and quietly smacks his lips once more before falling back asleep.

✘✘

After ten minutes, one exit, and at least fifteen more minutes spent puttering through sleepy town after sleepy town, they finally arrive at a place a very cranky Harry has graciously deemed fit for coffee consumption.

Only the appearance of coffee, first a cup while sat at the diner counter as they picked through runny eggs, and then another each in little paper to-go cups, has coaxed Harry back into the front seat. True, he still looks more dead than alive with his puffy, red eyes, and he’s probably ten minutes from going under again, what with the way his knees are pulled into his chest, feet on the seat, but Louis doesn’t really mind. Doesn’t mind at all even.

There is, however, one thing he _does_ mind.

“Right,” Harry says flatly, cup clutched tight in his hands. “We need to head right.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s left, man,” Louis corrects him. When Harry makes a disparaging noise, Louis shoots him a look. “What? How do _you_ even know? You were comatose in the back.” He flicks the turn single left.

“Left just takes us east again,” Harry shakes his head firmly. “And we need to get back on to 80 West.”

Louis knows this. Louis is the one who has been fucking staring at road signs for fourteen hours straight. “Exactly,” he says measuredly, pulling back onto the main drive. He takes a sip of coffee. “That’s why we go left. I got us here. I think I can get us back to the expressway, Harry.”

Silence for a moment. As they cruise along, Louis smiles smugly, sure he’s won the battle.

And then, “Louis,” he glances over. There’s a look of pure, morning-induced irritation on Harry’s face. “We needed. To go. _Right_.”

Louis ignores him.

Fifteen minutes later and faced with a sign for the entrance to I-80 East, he admits defeat.

“Told you,” Harry smirks. “I’ve got an _excellent_ sense of direction. Always know where I’m going.” He sips his coffee. “Unlike _some_ people.”

Louis turns on Boz Scaggs in protest.

✘✘

Pennsylvania passes by in more or less peaceful silence. Harry dozes; Louis starts the Queen discography back from tape one again. It’s calm and quiet; hot, but no longer stifling. The sky’s a bit cloudy, but not gray. There’s nothing _wrong_ with anything.

But Louis can’t stop thinking about forty-eight hours ago, about Harry’s lips on his, about kissing and crushes and Harry’s nose against his chest. And then Freddie’s singing, _“Tomorrow comes, tomorrow brings, tomorrow brings love in the shape of things,”_ and that might be a dramatic way to put it, but the sentiment’s still there.

He’s about to burst. Because he certainly hadn’t _planned_ this road trip as a big Gay Coming of Age, but the situation sure did present itself and— and _fuck_. He wants to kiss Harry again. Badly. Maybe even just hold his hand.

The high school gym rat part of him whimpers in pain. Oli and Stan would never have let him live these thoughts down if they knew (although general romantic feelings probably would have been the _least_ of their concerns in this particularly situation.) But also... _fuck_ them. They’ll be squeezing one out on their college-educated left hands for the rest of their lives anyways.

He can do this. He can make a move. Like. A real, pointed move.

(He cannot. He can’t even get on the right fucking expressway for God’s sake.)

He almost wishes he’d never met Harry. Never gone on this stupid, dumb trip.

(This is a complete and utter lie. He has never been so giddy or excited about anything— _anything—_ in his entire nineteen year old life.)

Okay. He just needs to get his shit together. He’s not in Brunswick anymore and Harry has quite literally shown interest in having another boy’s tongue down his throat. So.

Louis’ fingers are twitching, palms itching, and he’s just about to buck up and _do it_ , reach over and lace Harry’s fingers between his own just like he’s seen in every stupid, _overrated_ movie where the boy gets the girl. Easy. Cool. As if it hadn’t taken him two days to do it. But—

“Oh, woah. Do you see that?”

Louis jerks at the sound of Harry’s voice. He follows where Harry’s pointing and blinks, a little confused. There’s a guy on the edge of the road with his arm outstretched. They’re a bit too far off to tell for sure, but Louis assumes he’s got his thumb out as well. He’s _also_ fairly sure that he’s wearing an open, brown vest. With nothing underneath.

“ _Stop!_ Stop, let’s see what his deal is!” Harry excitedly exclaims. Excitedly. Exclaims.  _Excitedly_ _exclaims_ that he wants to stop for shirtless Vest Man who is, essentially, shirtless.

Louis does not want to stop.

But he can’t think of a good enough excuse not to, so he eases on the brakes and slows to a halt just beside the guy. Sure enough, a pair of dark nipples greet them, a flat, toned stomach rising up from the lowset waistband of some truly _unique_ jeans.

Harry leans his head out the window. “Hey! What’s up?” He’s got pep in his tone as he grins, forearm supporting him against the open window frame.

Vest Man smiles serenely. “Just looking for a lift.” A worn, gray duffle bag lays at his feet.

“Where you headed?” Harry asks, and Louis’ eyes shut momentarily; he does his best not to sigh. So much for just _bucking up and doing it._

Vest Man shrugs and then runs a hand through the side of his shaggy, black hair. He’s attractive. Very attractive. And Louis wants him _gone._ “Nowhere really. Just seeing where I can get to, I guess. You guys?” His voice is soft and friendly and _goddamn it,_ there isn’t enough space in this van for a conventionally attractive, wonderfully nice stranger. There just isn’t.

Harry smiles wide and turns slightly to face Louis. He’s all big eyes and white teeth and Louis knows that even though this is _his_ van and _his_ road trip, that the battle’s already lost. Vest Man is coming with.

“Louis here and I are on our way to San Fran. You can hang with us for a while, if you want?” Honestly, fuck Harry and his penchant for getting in cars with strange men.

Louis is vaguely aware that this probably qualifies as Stranger Danger and all that other bullshit about serial killers, etc, but in truth, the fact that when Vest Man picks up his duffle bag, a small, well-cared for drawing pad lays underneath freaks him out even more. Vest Man is hot, polite, and artistically inclined.

It’s probably not one of Louis’ finer moments when he bluntly asks, “You got money for gas?”

Harry shoots him an odd look, brows arched high, but Vest Man just takes it in stride. “Eh... not really,” he shrugs again. “I draw, though. I could pay you in drawings?” He says it so earnestly, as if this were a perfectly reasonable trade off, that for half a second Louis almost finds himself agreeing.

“O— wait, _what?”_ he splutters at the exact moment that Harry says, “Oh, man! That’d be sweet!”

“Also,” Vest Man interrupts obliviously, swinging his bag around to his front and peeling back the zipper, rifling around for just a moment. Out comes a huge— genuinely _huge—-_ bag of green. “I’ve got a shit ton of pot.”

Louis’ mouth snaps shut; Harry looks delighted.

Welcome aboard, Vest Man.

✘✘✘

“I’m Zayn Javadd Malik, by the way.” Vest Man is sprawled out, back against one of the sliding doors, legs kicked up casually over his duffle bag. He’s made himself right at home.

“Zayn Javadd,” Harry starts, twisting in his seat to face the back.

“Zayn is fine,” Zayn interrupts him amicably. “Or Z.”

“Okay,”  Harry laughs. Louis’ eyes flicker between the road and Zayn’s face in the rearview mirror. “Zayn. What’s your deal, man?”

Zayn scratches the dark scruff decorating the side of his cheek. “I don’t know. Like I said, I like to draw?” he offers. He has a safe, slow smile and an irritatingly apparent vibe of elegance.

Louis hates that he’s charmed. Hates that the deepening dimple on Harry’s cheek means that he’s charmed as well. He frowns. That’s _his_ dimple. He’d done a truly horrific Barbara Streisand impersonation yesterday for the sole purpose of seeing that dimple. He _worked_ for that dimple. Zayn declaring that he ‘likes to draw’— and so? Louis likes to draw too!— should not be dimple-worthy.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry nods. “But what else? Where you from?”

Zayn laces his fingers together in his lap and shrugs a single shoulder. “Born in Miami...I was last in Philly.” That seems like all he’s going to offer on the subject when he adds, “It was a very dirty city. Nice for inspiration, though.” With that, he unzips his bag again and removes yet another large sketchpad. He flips through the pages for a moment before handing it off to Harry.

“Oh— wh— _wow.”_ Louis can’t see what it is Harry is looking at, but he sounds sufficiently stunned to say the least. “Lou— look at this.” Louis spares a glance at the page and then quickly back to the road, but wait— _what—_ he does a double take. The page is filled edge to edge with a perfectly scaled, beautifully shaded city landscape. Comprised entirely of Philly Cheesesteaks. It’s simultaneously the weirdest and coolest thing he’s ever seen. It’s incredible. He looks over at Harry then and figures his bug-eyed, bemused expression must match his own.

“Um,” he says, at a loss for words. “You guys down for stopping for lunch?”

✘✘✘

Harry stops Louis just as he’s pulling the gas station door open, arms laden with suspiciously cheap sandwiches and a dozen packets of M&Ms. “Hey—” he says hurriedly, voice low, glancing over his shoulder to where Zayn is still at the counter, fishing quarters out of his back pocket. “Was that— you don’t mind do you? He just— I mean, he seems cool, right?”

Louis sort of wants to be a dick, to roll his eyes or even make a scene along the lines of ‘well you didn’t really give me a choice, did you?’ but he can’t bring himself to do it. Harry’s concerned grimace is painful enough as is.

“Nah,” Louis finally says, shrugging as they make their way back to the Garbage Truck. “He’s fine. The more the merrier right?” he forces himself to say

Harry looks immensely relieved. “I know, I know. I should’ve just— I just get really enthusiastic sometimes. I should’ve asked,” he apologizes. “I just...like people? You know?”

And Louis sort of melts at that. “I can tell,” Louis replies, smiling begrudgingly. “That’s how we got into this situation isn’t it?” It’s one of your best qualities, he wants to add. I hardly know you, he thinks, but I know this.

They settle into the back of the van with their shitty food, and even though there’s ample space— Zayn isn’t back yet— Harry sidles up right besides Louis.

✘✘✘

“I love Freddie Mercury!” Zayn exclaims, doodling in his pad with one hand, eating with the other. Of course he loves Freddie Mercury. Louis can’t even deny him that because who doesn’t?

The only issue is, however: “Come to the concert with us then!”

Harry grins wide when he says it, shifting slightly, jeans brushing up against Louis’ thigh. “The more the merrier, right, Lou?” Louis is thankful for the aviators perched carefully on his nose that are, hopefully, disguising the sour expression he’s truly doing his best to bite back.

“Right…” he agrees.

“The show’s on the 22nd, but we’re on our way now because…” Harry flicks Louis’ ankle. “Why not?”

Louis knows it’s a lost cause, but all the same, he fixes Zayn with a look that hopefully communicates how horrible and terrible this trip will definitely (not) be and says, “The Garbage Truck doesn’t have AC—”

“—that’s the name of the van—”

“And we usually eat shit like this. Also, we sleep in the back. No hotels or whatever.” He doesn’t even know why he bothers. Zayn just smiles, seemingly delighted by the prospect of being cooped up in a mobile oven for more than a week with two strangers.

“Okay, he agrees. “Why not?”

✘✘✘

They’re settling back in for the long haul— Kansas is Harry’s artist of choice this time around— when Zayn taps Louis’ shoulder lightly. He turns to see a clear baggie, several large, neatly cut brownies stacked inside.

“Dessert?” Zayn offers politely and _who is this guy,_ seriously? “I traded a dude I met in Pittsburgh a drawing I did of Luke Skywalker and Leia making out and got these. Easy bargain, if I do say so myself,” he smiles proudly, fishing a square out.

“Luke and Leia?” Louis protests, watching as Zayn breaks a single brownie into thirds. “Why the everloving fuck would someone want a picture of Luke and Leia making out? Everyone knows that Han is about 30 seconds away from tapping that ass.”

“That’s not true,” Harry disagrees. “Well,” he pauses, accepting the brownie bit Zayn hands him. “It depends. Whose ass are you referring to? Leia’s? Because I think we shouldn’t count Luke out of the running here…”

“Luke and Leia? Are you kidding me?” Louis demands, betrayed.

Harry makes a face. “No? I meant Luke and Han.”

And— _oh._ That’s a thought. One Louis will have to explore later. But first—

“Why so tiny?” he shoots Zayn a look, waving his brownie piece around. “This isn’t going to do anything!”

“Do anything?” comes Harry’s voice, confused.

Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s a weed brownie, Curly. Try to keep up.”

Zayn smiles innocently. “It’s all you’ll need. Trust me.”

Well. That’s just not true at all. “Harry and I are weed connoisseurs,” Louis sniffs. “An itsy bitsy bit brownie won’t do anything at all. And I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows, clearly amused. “You ever have one of these before?”

“No,” Louis says, indifferent. “But I’m telling you. We’re both used to it. Right, Harry?”

Harry to his credit, is not a complete traitor it seems. “I think we’ll be fine with one each, Zayn. Honestly.” Zayn opens his mouth to protest again, viciously long eyelashes batting against his cheeks, but Harry, bless him, is still a little immune to his wily charms— which is incredible and may just mean there’s hope for Louis yet. He adds, “We’ll start with half, okay? Sound good?”

Zayn doesn’t reply. Just smirks and bats his eyelashes a bit more. “Okay,” he agrees. “Have at it then, boys.”

✘✘✘

“I don’t know,” Louis complains loudly, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “I don’t even feel anything. And it’s been hours...what time is it even?” he asks.

“Relax,” Zayn giggles. He sounds less composed now, Louis thinks. Lighter. Like a bird.

“It’s 2:30,” Harry announces from the captain seat. “So it’s only been like an hour.” His voice is airy. He might be a bird, too. Louis is not at all jealous of this possibility.

“Okay. Well, I’m gonna eat the rest then. This is dumb.”

“I don’t think—” Zayn starts, leaning forward into the front seat, but it’s too late. Louis shoves the whole second half into his mouth in a single bite. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Harry flash Zayn a defeated smile before swallowing the rest of his as well.

“If you two fuckers are gonna lose it, I don’t wanna be sober to see,” Louis hears Zayn mutter. He’s starting to crack, Louis thinks. Good. Less zen, more bitchy is always good. There’s silence then and he assumes Zayn’s downing his own piece.

Louis turns up the stereo and Kansas blasts through the speakers.

✘✘✘

_“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more…”_

“Harry, if you start this song one more time, I swear to God I’ll castrate you,” Louis grins. He means to sound irritated and snappy, but his cheeks are almost frozen from smiling so hard and he can’t seem to stop giggling.

Harry frowns, scandalized. “But how would we do anything then?”

“Do what?”

“Things.”

“What things?”

“Things we couldn’t do if you castrated me?”

Louis blinks, confused. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know! You’re the one who said it,” Harry shoots back, hurt.

“You didn’t want him to start the song again,” Zayn adds helpfully.

Louis furrows his eyebrows. “What song?”

He hears the whirr of the tape rewinding.

_“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more…”_

“Oh, shit,” he cackles. “Harry, you fucking bastard!”

Harry preens. “You love me.” Louis likes to think the noise he makes in response says otherwise.

Everything’s warm and toasty. Cloudy, but in a pleasant, relaxing sort of way. Louis’ eyes feel a bit foggy, a bit heavy, and somewhere in the back of his brain he has the decency to recognize that this is mildly dangerous, but whatever. They’re in the middle of nowhere Ohio, cornfields on either side and he drives buzzed all the time, so it’s fine. He’s _just_ on the far side of buzzed. At least all the weed does is make him drive stupidly slow.

Harry’s giggling. Zayn’s giggling. Louis’ giggling. The whole car is a flood of giggles and Kansas because _holy shit._ How many times has Harry played this song in a row? But it’s interesting. It sounds different this time around. Louis bobs his head back and forth, content and happy, until suddenly— it _slams_ into him.

A huge, unforgiving wall of anxiety swallows him up, making every nerve in his body stand on edge, tingle excruciatingly. He’s suddenly, incredibly, _vividly_ aware of everything around him and that’s when he realizes that the giggles around him have subsided. The stereo is still blasting Kansas, Robby Steindhart telling him _‘lay your weary head to rest,’_ for probably the fiftieth time and—

“Guys, I think I need to pull over.” Harry mumbles a breathy “yeah” and Zayn grunts. In future days, Louis will always proclaim successfully navigating the Garbage Truck over to the side of the road and carefully placing it in park as his finest accomplishment, the sign of a truly skillful stoner.

In the current moment, however, he is quite sure that he is going to die. Positive, really. Not from a car crash, or whatever— they park safe and sound. No. Louis Tomlinson is going to die because death itself is coming for him; he’s sure of it.

He manages to pull the lever on his seat so that it tilts back slightly and is met with a sprinkle of giggles. Relief floods through him. He’s not alone. The others are here and they’re alive. The relief is huge and overwhelming, but then the tape spins again and Harry, it’s definitely Harry, chuckles and— _“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more…”_ And tears, actual tears stream down Louis’ face.

Death is coming for him and the last thing he’ll ever hear is Kansas.

He panics then. He doesn’t want to die! And he _definitely_ doesn’t want to die while listening to Kansas! The prospect fills him momentarily with horror.

This is it, he decides. This is the end.

He’s filled with a sudden peace then. Lets the waves of death roll over him. Lets the beautiful harmonies of the song care for him, lead him home.

Yes, he thinks, just as Steindhart screams out, _“Surely heaven waits for you!”_ Surely heaven waits for Louis.

He somehow musters the strength to look over towards Harry, who is actually red in the face, laughing so hard no sound comes out, and then glances back and sees Zayn quietly drawing in his book, and then Louis isn’t entirely sure if this is The End or not anymore, but there’s still a strong possibility. The waves of death are still crashing over him, just maybe not quite so hard. A huge, upending peal of laughter rips through him as he turns back to Harry, rubbing at his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, eyes somehow serious despite his huge grin.

“I think death is coming for me,” Louis admits.

Harry makes some sort of noise. Louis thinks he might be— cooing? And then he reaches over to awkwardly pull Louis out of his seat, guiding him into the back and helping him lay down.

“You’re okay,” Zayn says conversationally. “I told you half a brownie would be enough.” Louis has no idea what he’s talking about to be quite frank, but he can’t be bothered (or might not be able) to say so. Especially not with the way Harry’s settling down behind him, resting Louis’ head on his lap, running his fingers through his hair.

The sensation reminds him of silk. “Silkworms,” he announces.

“Yes,” Harry agrees politely. “I think we all need some food,” he adds. His voice sounds just as faded as Louis’, but he’s somehow still upright, so there’s that.

“You can have the rest of the brownies,” Louis hears Zayn suggest. A surge of panic races through Louis’ body.

“Harry, no!” he says loudly, incomprehensibly worried that Harry’s about to eat another brownie. “They’re poison! I knew he was a bad fucking egg,” he trails off accusingly, easing back into Harry’s lap.

“Ouch,” Zayn chuckles.

“Think he was just joking, Lou,” Harry murmurs. The sound is suspiciously close to Louis’ ear, breath hot on his skin. He shivers. “Still got your M&Ms?”

Louis nods, calm now, because of course he has M&Ms. “Glove compartment,” he says, a little sleepy.

He hears rustling and then Zayn saying, “Shit. How many bags do you need?” Louis doesn’t deign him with a response.

“Blues and reds only,” he mumbles softly when he feels Harry reaching around him for a little package.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I know.” Louis smiles. It’s only been three days and Harry already knows exactly how he likes his M&Ms.

It’s okay, he thinks. Death will come for him another day.

✘✘✘

He must fall asleep, but when he wakes up that goddamn song is _still_ playing. Except— he cracks open an eye. Zayn’s humming along and it sounds like— yeah, Harry’s definitely singing. He listens for just a few more moments. The vibrations of Harry’s chest against the back of his head lull him back to sleep.

✘✘✘

It’s dark out when Louis’ eyes blink back open, heavy and confused. The van is stopped again, but a steady stream of traffic— semis by the sound of it— swing past. Someone must’ve driven them back towards civilization before heading off to sleep, he thinks. For a moment, Louis hazily thinks the sound of the traffic must be what’s woken him up.

But then a foot shifts, nudging between his ankles, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of the body pressed tight up against his chest, the tufts of curls tickling his cheek. Harry must’ve turned during the night and brought Louis’ arm with him. The van is totally still, Zayn pressed against the far side. When a single finger drags back and forth against Louis’ inner wrist, he blinks twice. But. No...no, he’s not imagining things. Harry’s foot wiggles again and a second finger joins the first, drawing slow, steady circles against Louis’ pulse.

“Harry?” he whispers into his hair, sound almost silent. The foot wiggles again and Louis presses back, trapping it tight between his ankles for just a moment before letting go. He feels sleepy and warm. Maybe still a tiny bit buzzed. Without thinking, he leans forward, presses his nose into the back of Harry’s neck. “You awake?” he breathes.

A tiny nod. A bob of the head, really. And then suddenly a low, quick flush floods through Louis’ body and he’s ten times more awake. Ten times more nervous. Because this feels— pointed. Harry’s foot is shifting back farther now until his leg is just about pressed between Louis’ and everything feels still. Frozen. Like it’s a secret, or like one wrong move could shatter the cover of the night.

Zayn is three feet from them, curled up into a little, oblivious ball, and Louis’ terrified because he’s never been in this situation before, and he can already feel himself getting stupidly hard after a whole thirty seconds of literally nothing. Can feel himself pressing up into the small of Harry’s back. And he’s not sure, but he thinks that the careful tension in Harry’s back, barely noticeable, but there, fucking there, might mean that he’s not alone in his nerves.

He swallows then, can feel where Harry’s curls tickle the swell of his Adam’s apple. Harry must’ve been psyching himself up as well because just as Louis’ ducking down, pressing tentative lips just behind the corner of his ear, Harry arches his back, leaning into it. Into Louis.

It’s shaky then. Or at least Louis is shaky. And it’s only partly from nerves, but also a different sort of shake, because for all his tension before, Harry _seems_ to know what he’s doing.

Louis frees his hand from where it had been cuddling Harry tight to his chest and brings it up to his neck, to his chin, pulls his face back and kisses him. Light, gentle kisses because he’s not sure how to ask for more, even with Harry’s slow, rolling movements against him. And _fuck,_ Louis almost hisses, choking it off with a kiss. The languid figure eights Harry’s pressing against him are insane, and he can feel how hot he’s getting.

Louis fell asleep in his jeans, but Harry’s in his briefs, and every time Harry arches into him, he can _feel_ it— his ass and his hips and the back of his thighs. His stomach tightens, and he has to focus on Harry’s jaw, the closest patch of skin his lips can find, and just pray that this feels as good for him as it does for Louis.

His left arm is still awkwardly crushed between them, spooning and all, but the right drops from Harry’s neck then, gets brave as it makes it’s way lower. In a moment of absurd self-awareness, he nearly laughs, unable to believe that all of his sexual experiences thus far have taken place in the back of his piece of crap van. His fingers drag across the exposed skin between Harry’s t-shirt and the briefs, and all thoughts fly from his mind at the sound of Harry’s tiny, breathy inhale.

“Is this okay?” Louis whispers, hesitating. At the same time, he’s frantically asking himself what _‘this’_ is, which is stupid because he knows. He fundamentally knows what happens when you stick your hands down another boy’s pants, but _holy fuck_ is he nervous. Aren’t instincts supposed to kick in at some point?

Louis catches just the tail end of a _“Lou”_ before Harry shifts, pressing his face into the arm curled beneath him. His back arches farther and Louis shivers at the contact, hand slipping down further.

A car horn suddenly blares hard and loud, making them both jump. Zayn startles up straight; Louis’ hand flies from Harry’s crotch.

“Whwazat?” Zayn mumbles, disoriented.

Louis swallows the breath he’d been holding, hand hot as if burnt. “Car horn.”

“Mmm,” he mutters in response, laying back down.

It’s silent again. Louis’ head flops down, falling into the crook of Harry’s neck. His heart’s still pounding, breath only just steadying.

After a few moments, Harry twists around in a flurry of awkward scooching and knees. Chest to chest, he folds his arms up, fingers quietly twisting themselves into the collar of Louis’ shirt.

They stare at each other for an eternity, nose to nose. Louis truly hopes he’s imagining things, hopes that he can’t actually see the reflection of the stars through the windows right there in Harry’s eyes.

“Night, Lou,” Harry whispers, darting in for a kiss. It’s soft and sweet, and an embarrassing noise squeaks past when Harry gives him a tiny nip on the bottom lip.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

“Night, H.”

He barely sleeps the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**⩶**

**2212 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

The first words out of Zayn’s mouth in the morning are, “You two need to shower.” And— Louis casually sniffs himself— he’s absolutely right. Two, going on three, days in a van with no AC has created somewhat of a ripe situation. All the same, Harry just makes a grumpy noise and burrows his face deeper into Louis’ neck. Forty-eight hour BO doesn’t smell quite so bad on him, Louis thinks.

Zayn’s got his side of the Garbage Truck wide open, lounging in the doorway with a cigarette between his lips. He seems neither fazed nor surprised that Harry’s all but curled into a ball, wedged snug between the door and Louis’ chest. Louis lazily stretches and offers no explanation, privately (probably not so privately) smug. It took them a whole two days, but it’s looking like the Gay Coming of Age is back on track

His smugness doesn’t last however. He inhales deeply and winces at the ache behind his left eye. “Do I—” he starts, voice gruff from sleep. “Fuck, how can I possibly feel hungover right now?” He half shifts into a sitting position, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder when he whines softly. “That’s not even a fucking thing! What did you put in that shit?” he demands, mouth horrifically dry. The dull thrum behind his eyes isn’t really enough to be a hangover, but he’s used to feeling  _ better _ the morning after a nice smoke, so. This is clearly Zayn’s fault.

Zayn shrugs and flicks at his cigarette. “I feel fine,” he offers. He’s back to zen calmness this afternoon it seems, and Louis would like to continue being bitter, he truly would, but to be honest, he mostly just wants to go back to sleep. 

“Don’t you own any shirts?” he shoots back, no real heat behind it. Zayn’s in the same open brown vest as the day before.

“Would you like to lend me one?” Zayn cocks his head to one side. Louis sighs. It’s no fun being irritable and snarky if the other person doesn’t rise to the bait. When Zayn leans over, reaching for his sketchpad, Louis’ temple gives a particularly annoying twinge. “Oh, no you don’t,” he warns, lowering himself back to the ground. “You gave me this hangover—”

“Weed hangovers aren’t a thing, man.” 

He’s obviously wrong. Also, good natured protests from good looking shirtless men have no effect on Louis. Or, well, at least not at the moment. “You’re on first shift driving today,” he replies dismissively. He lays flat on his back then, lets the scorching sun wash across his face. Harry wriggles in immediately, latching on like a koala bear.

His toes brush against Louis’. “Coffee,” he murmurs sleepily.

Zayn smirks from the door and Louis has to close his eyes because fuck Zayn. He doesn’t even know what he’s smirking about. Stupid, open-shirt hippie. Harry’s nose brushes against his neck then and, “Um,” Louis blinks, unduly pleased. Harry lays warm and heavy against his chest. “You heard the man. Let’s get some coffee.”

✘✘✘

An hour later, they’re back on the road, styrofoam cups in tow. That Zayn had successfully managed to coax Harry into accepting gas station coffee doesn’t bother Louis at all. It really doesn’t. He sips his drink in dignified silence and lets the soothing sounds of Zeppelin bring him inner peace.

Harry’s in the front, legs up on the dash. “So. Bathing,” he begins.

Wait. Hold up— “You were awake for that conversation?” Louis asks, surprised. Wrapping his leg over Louis’ hip had been a conscious decision it seems. Interesting.

“I was just resting my eyes,” Harry says. He shoots Louis a sunny smile over his shoulder and turns around again, winding a finger through a particularly buoyant curl.

Very, very interesting.

Louis chooses to ignore the choir of voices in his head begging to overanalyze the situation.He stretches out on his stomach. “So what do you propose then?” he asks lazily, voice a little muffled from where his face is pressed into the shag.  The back of the Garbage Truck isn’t actually so terrible, he decides. The carpet’s a little ragged, but the gentle swaying motion is quite relaxing. The only thing to make it better would be a certain boy—

“We could just find a river or lake along the way?” Zayn suggests, and, of course, leave it to Zayn to interrupt the beginning of a potentially incredible daydream. Harry  _ oohs _ in interest and Louis— Louis needs to unclench is what he needs to do, in all honestly. Persistent irritation with Zayn and his perpetually perky nipples is not the most productive or rational use of his time.

He makes a concerted effort to avoid sounding greatly pained when he says, “Or, we could shower at a truckstop like normal people?” Not that truckstop bathing is all that normal, anyways.

“Yeah, but,” Harry twists around in his seat again, “where’s the adventure in that?”

“Bathing with truckers seems fairly adventurous to me—”

_ “Lou.” _ And Harry just. He blinks. He doesn’t even bat his eyelashes or smile coyly or any of the other generally accepted universal forms of flirting. He literally just blinks. But it’s fine because good natured protests from good looking men are not a thing that Louis gives into, right?

“Fine,” Louis says, draping an arm across his eyes in stupid, embarrassed, easy defeat. A beat passes, and he hears rummaging. A map flies past his face, and then suddenly—  _ oof—  _ Harry’s diving into the backseat and right onto Louis’ stomach.

“Help me find a river!”

✘✘✘

For all that Louis is trying to overcome his deep-seated resentment towards Zayn, he has to admit, whether he likes him or not, he  _ is _ a very intriguing character. 

“It’s a good thing we’re passing by a river,” Zayn comments to the van at large as they zoom down I-71 through the edge of Ohio and finally,  _ finally _ (how have they been in Ohio so unreasonably  _ long?) _ into Indiana. “I’ve been out of water for days now. Had to actually resort to that bottled shit yesterday.” He’s got one hand out the window as he drives, cigarette smouldering in the wind. “And, like, I’m starting to feel a little off, you know? So that’s probably it.”

Taken aback, Louis catches Harry’s eye, relieved to see that for the first time thus far they seem to be on the same page regarding Zayn. “...what do you mean?” Harry asks carefully, still staring directly at Louis, bemused.

Zayn shrugs a shoulder and flicks at his cigarette. “I only drink fresh water.”

Louis is now beyond confused, and judging by the wrinkle between Harry’s eyes, he’s not alone. “Uh, pretty sure that’s like... a human thing, man,” he says slowly. It had always been fairly evident that Zayn was a little  _ out there, _ but Louis’ lost him here.

Zayn just hums in disagreement. “That’s what  _ you _ think. Do you know what kind of shit they put in your water?”

“Shit?” Harry repeats, just as Louis interjects,  _ “They?” _

Unamused, Zayn catches Louis’ eye in the rear view window. “The government, of course.” He says it so casually, so self-assured, that it takes Louis a moment to fully understand what he’s implying. 

No one says anything for a few seconds. And then Zayn adds, “They put fluoride in the water to cloud your senses. It makes you more docile. Easier to control.”

Louis and Harry stare at each other, full on stare for a solid thirty seconds or so, because, honestly, what does one do with this sort of information? That the hitchhiker they picked up in bumblefuck Ohio believes the government is attempting to control the general population through chemicals in the water?

Louis’ heard of these people, is the thing. Of course he has. But growing up in small-town Maine, he’d never actually _ met _ a real-life conspiracy theorist in the flesh. It’s actually quite exciting.

So it’s with great interest and sincerity that he hoists himself to his knees and into the front seat. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me more.”

Louis’ reluctant to admit it, but as Zayn gives his whole spiel— and it’s obvious it’s one he’s performed enough times to have down to a T— he’s forced to admire the guy. He’s wrong, totally and  _ completely _ wrong, but—

“Do you have any evidence the government is  _ not _ using fluoride to control you?”

Which, “No. But—”

“Then you can’t say I’m wrong,” and he’s got a point, there. Even Harry’s nodding in agreement. So while Louis’ not sure he’s convinced on the whole thing, he decides it’s not the worst thing to believe in the grand scheme of things.

“Most of my bag is just filled with water bottles,” Zayn explains. Hair ruffling in the wind, casually slouched over the wheel, cigarette gesticulating freely out the open window, he paints a serene picture. “I just make it a point to keep mostly along rivers and lakes as much as I can. Every once and awhile I have to resort to bottled water. Or worse,” he makes a supremely disgusted face, “ _ tap.  _ But that’s only if I’m really fucked.”

“Huh,” Harry says, leaning more or less into the front on his knees, only a hand on Louis’ thigh for balance. “But...how do you know they don’t put fluoride in the streams and shit, too?”

Zayn’s ready as ever for this critique, undeniably poised, and  _ damn, _ Louis thinks. He could probably have a career as a lawyer or professor or something. “The rain dilutes it.”

“ _ Yeah,  _ Harry,” Louis says, flicking Harry’s arm with a grin.

“Okay,” Harry agrees. “But doesn’t it, like, give you the shits or whatever? River water, I mean.” Louis snorts. 

Zayn, nonetheless, remains unperturbed. “Sometimes.” And Louis’  _ really _ laughing now. “But it’s the price I pay to keep my mind clear. I can’t create if I’m drugged, you know? How am I supposed to make art if the government’s holding my mind hostage?”

“Maybe that’s why I sucked so much at school,” Louis adds thoughtfully. 

Zayn nods. “Probably.”

“I wish I’d known before. Could’ve told my mom when she was all pissy that I got straight C’s.”

But that just prompts a new philosophical rant from the driver’s seat about the worthlessness of defined grades, and as a proudly jaded recent high school graduate, Louis would like to never mention the word school ever again.

“Alright, Nipples, that’s enough out of you for a few hours,” Louis says candidly, pushing Harry backwards gently so that he can rejoin him in the back. “Harry? Be a dear and find Mr. Conspiracy here some music to shut him up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry rolls his eyes. An empty coffee cup flies dangerously close to his face.

“Now, Harold. I raised you better than that,” Louis says loftily, rearranging one of the bags into a semi-comfortable backrest.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

Some tell-tale rummaging and then mutters of, “No...no. I don’t even know what I’m— oh,  _ oh.  _ Okay. This is a good one.” 

Louis doesn’t even bother to pretend not to watch Harry’s ass as he leans forward to slide the tape in. He’s comfortable, possibly ready for a nap to pass the time, but then the tape whirrs, there’s a single drum kick and then,  _ “Some people call me _ — _ ” _

Without even missing a beat, Zayn picks up the line.  _ “the Space Cowboy.” _

Louis groans. “Harry. Why—”

Harry twists around in his seat and grins amicably like the traitor he is.  _ “Some call me the Gangster of Love,”  _ he belts out wildly, more than a little off-key from the sheer force of it. 

“I asked for music, not a sing-a-long,” Louis snips back, haughtily crossing his arms across his chest for effect. Which is not at all totally negated by the unwilling giggle that escapes his stubbornly pursed lips.

Zayn ignores him, voice rising effortlessly because _of course_ he can sing.  _ “Some people call me Maur-ICE.”  _ Louis huffs. 

Zayn’s all relaxed head bobs, fingers tapping softly against the steering wheel, but Harry’s halfway to dancing in his seat as they spit out the last line in union.  _ “Cause I speak at the pompitous of love.” _

Instinctually, Louis really wants to hate this. He really, really does. This is the kind of shit that Oli and Stan used to make fun of him for— singing out loud in the car, let alone  _ belting _ and  _ dancing. _ Gay, they’d said. That sort of shit was  _ gay _ .

And for a split second it’s like four years of lame as hell friends and constantly being shit on for trying to have even a mildly good time are staring him right in the face, and it’s just— it’s stupid, but he suddenly feels a whole range of emotions—— good, bad, and everything between— that he shouldn’t. Not just because Harry and Zayn (mostly Harry) are now passionately singing into air-microphones. 

It’s not pride that almost gets to him: it’s habit that keeps his arms crossed, bored eyebrow-raise plastered across his face, even as he pretends he’s not biting back a growing grin. But then Harry’s extending his air-mic towards him, and his eyes are bright and he’s got this dimple that’s deepening with every passing second, and— fuck it. When the cute boy that apparently has a thing for you passes you an air-mic, you  _ sing, _ damn it.

He gives in, the lyrics and maybe  something else bubbling up and out. And it feels  _ good,  _ damn it. God, does it feel good.

_ “Cause I’m a picker, I’m a grinner, I’m a lover, and I’m a sinner. I play my music in the sun…”  _

Harry sways back and forth in time with the beat, and Zayn’s singing way above either of them, and Louis— Louis just lays down in the back, folds his arms under his head, and sings with a smile:

_ “I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker. I sure don’t want to hurt no one...” _

✘✘✘

Finding the river on the map had taken all of two minutes. Getting there, however, is a different story. Louis had gracefully acquiesced directional power to Harry this time around— even though he  _ had _ been pretty sure there was a faster way to get there than Harry’s plan.  _ (“Louis, I mean this in the best way possible. Shut up.”) _

At any rate, now that sing-a-long time is long over— much to Harry’s distress— a mellow, peaceful vibe has engulfed the van. 

Except Louis can’t relax. 

He’s back in the driver’s seat is the thing, and Harry’s not only followed him to the front, but has deigned it perfectly acceptable to turn himself completely sideways, back against the door, and rest his feet in Louis’ lap, mere inches from his crotch. Which means that Louis is now one pothole away from a foot-induced erection. And that’s... just something he’d prefer to avoid on many levels.

He needs a distraction.

He chooses an easy target. “So Zayn, as an artist-slash-bum...how do you make money?”

_ “Louis!” _ Harry’s heel digs hard into Louis’ thigh, which is somewhat counterproductive to this whole distraction idea.

“What?” he asks innocently, glancing into the rearview mirror. “Zayn?”

Zayn scratches his scruff absentmindedly. “Sometimes I buy weed and sell it for twice as much to kids wearing corduroy.” 

Louis snorts. “That’s awfully specific.”

“Yeah, well,” he smirks, “do you know many corduroy wearing stoners?”

Harry laughs at that, and when he laughs he squirms, and when he squirms his feet land dangerously close to where they absolutely should  _ not _ . Louis stifles a flinch.

“So, um...yeah. I sell weed. I sell my drawings...I worked at a laundromat for two months a while back. Kinda sucked, but it was like having a huge closet,” Zayn shrugs. “Oh!” he adds brightly after a moment. “Once, a guy asked me to show him my feet for fifty bucks.” He sighs dreamily. “I’d do that one again.”

“Feet?” Harry echoes, very purposefully wiggling his own and sending Louis into panic overdrive. Stay cool, he begs himself. Stay calm. Harry’s big toe is more or less poking the head of his cock at the moment, and it’s not— Louis doesn’t have a  _ foot fetish _ or anything, but as a permanently horny nineteen year old, he has the grim feeling that any appendage poking his dick would probably do the trick, given the right person. 

Harry is definitely the right person

Louis forces himself to stare straight into the sun, hoping the pain will distract from his inevitable semi. 

Zayn’s now rambling on about how money is a social construct, and Louis is about thirty seconds from either shoving Harry’s feet out of his lap or succumbing to a legitimate, full-fledge hard on, and both seem like equally embarrassing options. He spares a fleeting glance in Harry’s direction, blinking back sunspots, and—  _ that fucker. _ Harry's blatantly watching him with a stupid, sly smirk on his face.

And then he inches his foot closer ever so slightly. 

“Um,” Louis chokes out. “Anyone gotta piss? Gonna pull over.” He promptly swerves to the shoulder, barely in park before he’s swinging the door open and tumbling out as fast as he can. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, because of course he doesn’t. What can he say? Sorry I give you the intro to a footjob on I-80 with our new hippie friend lounging in the back?

But Louis hears him giggling. So he flicks him off and stumbles back around the van to attempt to piss with a boner.

✘✘

Before them stretches a spring of muddy, brownish water. 

Louis crosses his arms. “I’m not fucking getting in that.” 

It’s not a river, really, but more of a stream. A creek at best. And there’s no way Louis is putting as much as his pinky in any sort of naturally occurring body of wild water dark enough to completely enshroud even the bottom of the shore. There are probably weeds and rocks and god knows what sort of slimy bottom feeders down there. Indiana is practically the  _ South _ for god's sake. 

He turns haughtily to Harry for backup, all traces of blossoming fondness towards Zayn rapidly dissipating. He wants them to get  _ in _ this thing? “I thought the purpose of bathing was to get clean?” he complains. He can already hear Zayn shamelessly shucking off his jeans and shoes behind him, but Harry, too, is eyeing the water apprehensively.

“Water’s water, man,” Zayn drawls easily. Louis glances over, ready to retort, but the words get sucked back in with an embarrassing gasp that he quickly tries— and fails— to mask with a cough.

In the two hours since they’d set their sights on Hack River, Louis’d been peacefully enthralled by the way Harry had kept bouncing between the back and front seats.  Apparently , he’d been too caught up in their steady stream of terrible stories and rumbling laughter to spend much time contemplating what would happen once they actually arrived at their destination.

However, even without delving too deeply into the logistics of it all, one would assume that he would’ve spared even a thought or two to the implications of roadside bathing. Namely, nakedness. With not one, but  _ two _ unfairly attractive men.

So, Zayn standing butt naked in front of them really shouldn’t be this shocking—shit, he’s been half naked this whole time as is— yet Louis feels a lot like one of those metaphorical deers in the headlights. That is to say,  _ smashed _ .

“Uh.” He hates how high his voice has suddenly become. Zayn nonchalantly itches a spot on his outer thigh, apparently unfazed. For the second time since this whole debacle began, Louis turns to Harry for support, only to find him shirtless and sliding out of his jeans.

Louis freezes, and it’s just— it’s so  _ fucking  _ embarrassing because everyone else is so blatantly indifferent to this turn of events, and if he could flush a color darker than red, Louis swears he would, because there is one, _ one _ other guy other than himself that he has ever seen naked, and Stan’s balls in the gym locker room freshman year hardly counts as something memorable, let alone erotic.

Louis’ still rooted to the spot when he hears, “Ah, fuck, that’s cold,” from behind him, Zayn hissing as he splashes into the the water. When Louis turns back again, Harry’s completely naked. He must misconstrue the stress obviously etched into Louis’ face as revulsion at the water still, rather than the result of manically forcing his eyes from drifting towards anywhere but Harry’s face.

“It’s kinda gross,” Harry shrugs resignedly, gesturing to the water, “but, it’s really freakin’ hot, so.” And with that he eases into the water as well, tensing at the temperature shock. “Come on, Lou!” he calls after a moment. “It’s actually not that bad! Bottom’s not even that squishy.”

Louis truly could not give less of a shit about the water at this point, seeing as he has been plunked into his own personal hell, which apparently consists of his second unfortunate boner of the day. He doesn’t want to say it’s his own fault, although it quite literally is, being his body and all, but it’s just— it’s— _there’s_ _two of them._ The two of them ganged up on him, took him by surprise, and yes, Louis has known he was gay since he was eight and in love with John Lennon, but Zayn’s dusky happy trail and soft thighs and Harry’s— Harry’s fucking _everything_ really— did not need to confirm it for him at this exact moment in time.

He reeks. He honestly needs to bathe, and he was just being a shit before. He would’ve gotten in in the end. Now, however, it’s just a question of logistics, seeing as he’s careening past the point of semi and into  _ ‘Oh, God, if I get naked my two new friends will see my rock hard dick’  _ territory.

“Give me a second. Jesus…” He turns around, away from the sight of a giggly, wet Harry splashing Zayn in waist-deep water, and swings off the backpack slung around his shoulders.

He’s panicking, but not enough to ignore the mildly confusing fact that not even a more than healthy dose of embarrassment has made him flag thus far. Another testament to his youth and horniess, apparently. 

He bites his lip and ignores it, pulling out the shampoo in his bag that he’d thought to bring from home. He __ _can’t,_ however, ignore the fact that his stomach twinges each time Harry teasingly yells out for him to hurry up. He strips, knowing that the longer he waits, the weirder it gets, and that there’s really only one surefire way to resolve this situation.

Finally naked, he picks up the soap, wheels around, and runs at the water in a full sprint, throwing himself in as quickly as possible. He hears Harry’s delighted laugh just before he hits. The water's shallow and it sort of hurts when he smacks the bottom, but the icy water does its job at least, boner shrinking within seconds.

“Fuck!” he curses when he surfaces, still crouched low. “Zayn, you  _ dick! _  You’re off the trip!” Zayn just laughs like he doesn’t care, which to be fair, he probably doesn’t.

“Throw me the soap,” he says. Louis’ not sure, but he thinks he sees a hint of a knowing smirk. He tosses him the bottle, aiming for his face just for good measure.

A splash of cold water whips across Louis’ back, and he flinches.  _ “Harry _ ! You _ little—” _  There’s a shriek of laughter just as he spins around and then another splash as Harry dunks himself under the murky water. Zayn’s busy soaping up his hair, and as it seems like Louis’  _ ‘situation’  _ has calmed itself for the moment— externally at least— Louis takes the opportunity to attempt to mercilessly attack Harry in a completely nonsexual release of his extremely sexual frustration.

Harry pops back up, sopping hair plastered over his face. “You look like a drowned rat,” Louis says menacingly, advancing with arms outstretched, prepping for the perfect splash.

“Now, Lou,” Harry says thickly, wiping his hair from his eyes, “didn’t your mother ever tell you not to give girls compliments you don’t mean?”

Louis snorts. “Oh, I meant it all right.” He lunges then, bringing his hands down hard against the surface, but Harry ducks just in time, disappearing back under the water. “Hey! It’s not fun if you don’t care about getting wet,” Louis whines. 

Harry doesn’t resurface after a moment, and Louis turns in a circle, wondering where he’ll pop up. A hand suddenly grabs his leg hard and tugs him down into the water. Louis screeches as he falls and ends up with a nose full of water.

“Fuck you, Styles!” he splutters, and before he even lets himself catch his breath, he pounces again.

Truth be told, under different circumstances, throwing himself onto the naked body of the guy he’d sort of hooked up with the night before, mere minutes after evading a boner-related catastrophe, would probably not be the soundest idea. The cold water has his back, however, and awkward erection #3 of the day is successfully avoided. Although, this is not to say that Louis doesn’t immediately attempt to memorize the feel of Harry Styles’ naked, wet body writhing in his arms as the sun beats down upon them and the sound of breathless laughter fills the air. It’s terribly romantic in a ‘wet dream set in a dirty, probably contaminated river’ sort of way.

Harry pushes him off with a forceful elbow to the stomach. “Ha!” he crows. “I win! Dunked you, punched you,  _ and _ escaped!”

The shampoo bottle whizzes through the air. “Lover boys. Hygiene, please,” Zayn says, bending down to drench his hair again.

Louis doesn’t even blush. He’s walked through fire and survived; a little ribbing is nothing at this point. “I think somebody’s getting jealous over here, Curly,” he says conspiratorily, making a big show out of sudsing up his hair. 

“I know,” Harry whispers. “He hasn’t stopped trying to get a glimpse of your cock since you stripped.”  _ That _ , however, brings the blush back. A small noise involuntarily escapes Louis’ throat, and he hurriedly dunks himself under the guise of rinsing. When he surfaces, Harry is horribly close and lathering up his chest in what is clearly a dramatic attempt at seduction. It’s cheesy and obviously put on, but then Harry lunges for Louis, holds him tight to his chest and yells, “But I’m not sharing! He’s all mine!” 

And holy fucking shit. Louis’ brain is cognitively able to understand that Harry’s just joking around, but his dick certainly doesn’t. It’s an incredibly strange sensation— being hopelessly aroused, but literally too cold to pop one.

Zayn snickers and shakes his head wildly, shaggy hair sending droplets flying, “Yeah, yeah, calm your tits, Macho Man.”

Louis doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Harry’s fingers dig into his bare hip, squeezing hard before pulling away and grabbing the shampoo.

“But you  _ are _ gay, aren’t you, Zayn?” Harry asks curiously, as if he were just picking back up the thread of a totally normal conversation. Louis goes bug-eyed.

“Harry!” He doesn’t finish the end of that sentence:  _ you can’t just  _ ask _ someone that! _

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. “Nah, I’m not.”  And that has Louis sinking down low into the water automatically, because shit, shit,  _ shit _ this has taken a turn for the worst. 

He hadn't pondered it much, too consumed by the presence of the _other_ gay boy in the van, but on a casual, automatic level, Louis' always just sort of pegged Zayn as, well _—_ very gay.And even if he wasn't _—_  sure, maybe he hadn't seemed too fazed about the blatant...thing...between Harry and Louis, but there’s a _big_ leap between not caring if the strangers you’re copping a ride with like dick and having it wrongfully assumed that  _ you _ do as well. 

Louis holds his breath. He's heard enough at school and around town to know where this is going.

Zayn flops down onto his back, floating belly up. “I like everyone, not just guys. I don’t really care about that kind of stuff, you know?” He flutters his feet. “People are people. Love’s love.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sound of Zayn’s feet softly paddling against the water and the distant drone of the highway. And Louis...doesn’t quite know what to make of this information, but it would appear that no one will be getting punched this afternoon, so there’s that. He looks to Harry for his reaction; he’s nodding slowly, apparently deeply impressed.

“That’s awesome, man.”

Louis nods tentatively. To be honest, he’s never really thought about— liking both. It always sort of seemed like a one and done sort of thing. For half a beat he tries to summon up a generic image of a naked female body. It’s quickly replaced by pecs and that deep V thing that he always had to avoid staring at in magazines and movies. A dude, then. Definitely dudes.

“Boys  _ and _ girls?” Louis cautiously clarifies, soaping up the rest of his body carelessly.

Zayn pulls himself back to his feet and shakes his hair out again. He makes a face as if he doesn’t really understand the question.  _ “Everyone,” _ he replies with a sense of finality.

Okay. Everyone it is, then.

Once they’re all clean, or as clean as they can realistically get, Zayn fills up a dozen plastic bottles with disturbingly not-crystal-clear water, which Louis doesn’t even want to think about. They traipse back to the Garbage Truck in nothing more than their underwear, “It’s too hot to put clothes on,” being Harry’s reasoning.

Louis’ starting to get the feeling that his dilemma earlier hadn’t gone as unnoticed as wanted, as Harry had looked too smug when Louis’d swallowed hard and nodded indifferently at this suggestion. 

Once they’re back and settled, Harry  _ finally _ allows himself to be bullied into driving ( _ “But I get so sleepy!”) _ Before they head off, though, he takes a moment to dig through the tape box, tossing a black cassette in co-pilot Louis’ direction. “This one’s for you Zayn,” he smiles, shifting into drive. “All You Need is Love.  _ Magical Mystery Tour _ Album. Side 2, Track 5.”

[](https://ibb.co/gBz4RQ)  
[xx](https://imgbb.com/)  


✘✘✘

The afternoon passes on in an easy, comfortable wave. Zayn shows them what he claims is an extremely detailed drawing of the human eye that he’s been working on, and when Louis questions the fact there doesn’t seem to be any anatomical aspect to it, but rather just a colorful heap of tiny, geometric shapes thrown together, Zayn scoffs and says that he’d never said they were  _ realistic _ details. 

They smoke a little. They talk a lot. At one point, Harry slaps Louis’ thigh mid-laugh and just leaves it there. Somewhere along the way, Louis realizes that Zayn really isn’t  _ that  _ bad— at least not when he takes the wheel and Louis sits in the back with Harry’s head in his lap.

In fact, it’s all rather idyllic. Something out of a book maybe. Hadn’t Harry said when they were starting out that he felt like it was the beginning of a movie? Louis’ starting to get that vibe now himself, starting to not pinch himself each time he realizes that this is  _ real _ , this is  _ happening _ , that there’s a boy who wants him right here, right now. A boy who’s cute, and who makes him laugh. Who takes an hour to tell a story, but thirty seconds to set Louis’ cheeks on fire.

They’re crossing into Illinois when Louis finally musters up the courage to lean down close, lips just inches from Harry’s ear. 

“Remember how I said you looked like a drowned rat earlier?” Harry doesn’t reply, eyes closed, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I wasn’t kidding.” Harry frowns. “What? You did!” Harry smacks Louis’ arm without opening his eyes. “It was cute though,” he says softly. “You make a very cute drowned rat.”

It’s the best he can do. Fitting even, for the silly, dust in the road relationship they’ve stumbled into. Harry cracks open an eye and his nose scrunches up in an otherworldly level of adorable. 

So, yeah. Somewhere along the way, Louis realizes Zayn really isn’t  _ that  _ bad. And that Harry Styles might just be  _ that _ good.

✘✘✘

Of course it all comes to a head later that night. 

He’d dozed off after dinner, the weed they’d had as dessert making him a little sleepy, and when Louis wakes up again, it’s dark and he’s alone in the back, swaying back and forth with the movement of the van. 

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Harry says slowly. The soft burn of the headlights cast the softest glow across his profile, still half shadowed. He’s curled up in the passenger’s seat pretzel style, back against the door. “I guess I just don’t really see myself in that role.” It sounds like the ending to a more drawn out thought, a conversation midway through.

“I do,” Zayn says. “I definitely do. Someone’s out there for me.” He says it like a fact, voice stronger, more sure than it was even during his conspiracy spiel. He sighs, tone falling back to careful and calm. “But who knows. We’re still young. I’m not too worried about it.”

_ Oh, _ Louis realizes. Relationships. They’re talking about relationships.

“Totally,” Harry says earnestly, voice slow and heavy. “Like, this is my first time even away from home. And, man,  _ that’s  _ a story for another time, but—,” he cuts himself off with a bitter laugh, and Louis frowns in sleepy confusion. 

“Anyways, I can’t imagine just like...traveling around like you do. I’ve got, like,  _ zero  _ idea what I’m doing. And I’m totally free, so it’s like... _ fuck, _ you know?” He laughs then, and Louis is completely still, trying to piece together what he’s hearing. “Free for the first time ever, man. So…” he trails off, and Louis knows, just  _ knows, _ that if he could see Harry's face clearly, he’d only see happiness and excitement and adventure and every other tiny piece that he’s come to realize adds up to Harry Styles. “Either way, I just...for now, I just wanna have fun, I guess. All that other stuff will fall into place later.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Louis doesn’t recognize the music they’ve put on.

“And Louis?” Zayn asks. His eyes fall closed at the mention of his name.

“What about him?”

“You said you’re both from the same place, right?”

“He’s from one town over, actually,” Harry says. “We only met like...I don’t know, like twelve hours before we left? But he’s cool, I guess. Really nice.” He laughs when he says it, and Louis essentially feels like he’s been dumped on the side of the road _. _

Louis isn’t crazy, he knows that they’re aren’t, like,  _ anything.  _ Not  even a little bit. But hearing your name thrown out in the context of a conversation about relationships and being free and not caring and having fun...only to be summed up with,  _ He’s cool, I guess? _

It’s a punch he hadn’t been expecting.

His heart is sort of pounding, but— No. Just. No, he tells himself stubbornly. There’s nothing, not  _ a single thing _ wrong with what Harry’s saying.

Harry’s young and free and away from home for the first time. Of course doesn’t want _feelings_ involved with all of that. Why would he? He’s just being honest. And normal. 

What  _ isn’t  _ normal is the way Louis’ stomach churns despite all of these thoughts, as if a few kisses and gropes and silly smiles meant anything in the first place. His eyes screw shut, jaw clenched harder than hard as he wills himself to fall back asleep. 

Zayn hums in agreement and the conversation continues, off onto Zayn’s poetic ramblings about true love and how opposites attract in order to balance our inner spirits.

They don’t say another word about Louis. And that doesn’t hurt either. The fact that all Harry could only describe him as cool and nice (he guesses) doesn’t bother Louis because why should it? Why should it matter what some dorky guy with pink lips and big hands and a bubbly laugh and a sunny smile thinks of him? 

It doesn’t, Louis frantically repeats to himself. It doesn’t.

He takes a deep breath, hopes it reads as a sleepy sigh, and refuses to even blink back the prickling in his eyes, the tiny pings of disappointment. Just waits for them to subside.

Fuck Harry. And fuck Zayn, too, just for good measure.

Louis  _ knows _ he’s being dramatic, but he can’t help it and he can’t fight it and he can’t—  _ fuck, _ he can’t fall back asleep. Not even when Zayn pulls over a while later and they tumble into the backseat. They lay three in a row, Zayn and Louis on the edges, Harry smack in the center, and Louis just. He doesn’t think he can pass off any more deep, steadying breaths as sleepy sighs, but his stomach is tight and his throat sort of itches. And—

He feels stupid.

Just really freaking stupid.

And no matter how hard he tries to deny it, even just to himself, he’s hurt _. _

He firmly tries to tell himself that  _ Harry hadn’t meant it that way, _ but then he’s just  _ pissed _ , because even if it’s all been nothing, it hasn’t  _ felt _ like nothing, and that’s just— that’s not  _ fair _ .

It feels like he’s awake half the night stewing in self-pity. At some point his hopeless, hapless circle of angst comes back around, and he’s finally forced to accept that it probably makes more sense this way anyways. 

A road trip fling. Harry’d never said he wasn’t  _ interested _ in Louis or whatever. Just that he’s cool and nice. He guesses. Because he can’t really  _ know _ that Louis’ cool and nice, right? They’d only met twelve hours before the trip, after all. Harry’d even said so himself. 

And even though he sort of wants to jump out the car window and never look back, Louis knows he shouldn’t look a willing gift horse in the mouth. 

So they hook up once or twice? That’s not an opportunity he should pass up. God knows when he’ll find someone like Harry ever again.

And at the bottom of it all... Harry’s right. This is a time for just living _. _ For having fun. Get to Cali. See Queen. And then maybe they drive back together. Maybe Harry goes his own way, does his own thing. He was heading out to California for a reason either way, no matter how hard he tries to claim it was  _ just because. _

Louis’ got ten— now seven— days with Harry, and he should make the most of them. And he will. He fucking, goddamn  _ will. _ Because he’s fine. He’s  _ fine _ .

It feels like hours before he finally manages to calm down. _It's f_ _ ine, _ he repeats to himself, the mantra of the heartbroken— which he  _ isn’t. _ Heartbroken that is. You can’t be heartbroken after just three days. 

Just as he’s just starting to drift back off to sleep, he feels an arm drape across his middle, a body press against his back. He freezes for a moment, panicked adrenaline rushing through him at first, but then it's tinged with the return of that hours old lump in his throat. He’s still for a moment, heart pounding, and he's suddenly overwhelmed with the desperate urge to shove Harry off and press himself close to the door.

Harry’s sleep heavy arm is warm, and it’s fucking hot inside the van so, really, that in itself should be a reason to toss him off, but— he can’t. Melodramatics and all. 

So he tugs the arm tight, surprised and unsurprised at the same time when Harry rolls in closer, nose nuzzling into Louis’ neck. Live while you’re young, he tells himself. Just have fun. 

✘✘✘

5 AM brings an orange-pink sky and the heavy ache of explicit resignation. Louis wiggles out from beneath Harry’s leaden arm, a generous total of two, maybe three, hours sleep under his belt, and crawls into the driver’s seat. Zayn’s left the keys right on the dash; if Louis weren’t so fiercely committed to not fucking caring about anything at all anymore— which he’s never really been very good at in the first place— he might’ve been able to summon up the energy to kick the moron awake for being so dispassionately careless. 

Dispassionately. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned from Zayn after all.

Neither of the boys in the back so much as sniffle when he shoves the key in and turns the ignition. If someone cracks an eye open, Louis never looks back to check.

He starts the engine and drives.

6 AM brings a pink-blue sky and a certain clarity of mind. In the daylight with the summer wind on his neck, Harry’s words sting less. 

Or maybe Louis just hears more.

Cool. Nice. Free. Fun.

It doesn’t sound so biting when he brings himself down from it all, when he allows himself to remember where they are, what they’re doing. 

By 7 AM, the sky is blue and nothing more. Louis just barely needs to convince himself that he’s fine.


	5. Chapter 5

**⩶**

**1832 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

“Lou.” A dry cough and a stuttering yawn. Louis watches in the rearview mirror as Harry forces himself up onto his elbows. “Lou. Coffee.”

Louis pulls the sun shade down, tilting it carefully, fussing with it a second or two too long just to keep himself from glancing at Harry again.

“Yeah, I know,” he finally says. “I’ll pull off first place I see.”

“Church,” a possibly comatose Zayn mumbles. A fleeting glance towards the back reveals he’s still sprawled on his stomach, face buried in his arms.

“Excuse me?” Louis blinks. He’s not sure he’s ever so much as stepped foot in a church before— it definitely wasn’t a topic ever really acknowledged in his household. Not that there is anything particularly _wrong_ with churches, other than the whole burning in hell if he ever finally manages to fuck a dude thing. Which— does sort of humping Harry count as sodomy? Should he be buying SPF 80 and negotiating with the devil yet?

“You wanna go to church?” Louis finally manages to clarify.

The Garbage Truck jolts over a speed bump. Zayn grunts in displeasure. “No. I’m Muslim.” If it weren’t 8 AM and pre-breakfast, Louis thinks he’d probably be more interested.

He rolls his eyes. “Again. So? You said church?”

“Donuts. Coffee.” The words are muffled by Zayn’s arm. Harry moans in response, and Louis’ eyes automatically flicker to his sleepy, curled-up form.

Zayn finally rolls himself over, blinking dumbly in the daylight. “There’s always food and stuff after church services on Sunday. That’s like...hitchhiking rule number one, man.”

Fair enough, Louis thinks, forcing his eyes back to the road. “So what?” He signals and shifts over a lane, mind already made up to take the first exit off. “We can just waltz right up and take whatever we like? I feel like it’s free for you know… _church goers.”_

He hears the flick of Zayn’s lighter, followed seconds later by the faint scent of bud. “It’ll be fine, man. Just act natural.”

✘✘✘

Brunswick, Maine is a small town. Louis knows small towns. Harry, by extension, knows small towns. Judging by the utterly blasé droop in Zayn’s eyes, equal parts stoned and sleepy, he does _not_ know small towns. Worse yet, as they pull into what Exit 55 had labelled Kelso City, Missouri (population 1,258, according to the welcome sign), the first sight they see is a red and white brick gas station with _Let Jesus Into Your Heart_ scrawled across the side in neat, black paint; it’s only then that it occurs to Louis that, small town or not, Kelso City is a beast unto itself: it’s in the South.

The Garbage Truck ambles down what is quite probably the one and only main street in the town, and it isn’t long before a picturesque, white building comes into view, the pristine front lawn completely vacant.

Harry sticks his head out the window. “First Baptist Church of Kelso City,” he reads off the small marquee standing proudly between a set of ugly bushes. He turns to stare at Louis, clearly fielding the same sort of apprehension about the morning’s mission.

“Uh... Zayn? I don’t know if this is gonna work,” Harry says, leaning between the front seats to face a still prostrate Zayn.

“What’s the worst they can do?” he shrugs, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. “Kill us for trying to get a few donuts?” The joint in the crook of his lips dips precariously.

Now, to be fair, Louis doesn’t actually know much about Southern Baptists besides the fact that he’s always used them as a synonym for Bible Thumpers, something his mother was always particularly adverse to herself. And wrong or right as that may be, all he currently sees is a single solitary church house with neither hide nor hare of coffee or donuts. What are they supposed to do? Crash the service and hope for the best?

He’s just about to say as much to Zayn, throw it in reverse and hightail it to, at the very least, the Jesus-themed gas station back at the edge of town for coffee, when the heavy wooden doors of the church are suddenly pushed open, and people begin milling out.

Hearing the commotion, Zayn finally sits up, pulling the stubby joint from the corner of his mouth. He rests it carefully on their homemade dirt-in-cup ashtray and dusts his hands off on his patch-work jeans.

“Remember what I said,” he warns, sliding the side door open. “Just act natural.”

✘✘✘

Hands. What does he usually do with his hands? He folds them. Then crosses them. Then lets them hang. Clasps them together. Behind his back? What has Louis ever done with his hands before this moment in time?

Act natural. Okay. Natural. Harry’s in a Pink Floyd shirt, Louis’s fairly sure they _all_ smell acutely of weed, and Zayn— Zayn is shirtless. Zayn is shirtless and they’re standing awkwardly on the far edge of the stone steps leading up to the Motherfucking House of Southern Baptist Worship, and Louis is positive that he, himself, personally has _never_ acted less natural in his life.

Wave after wave of pastel dresses and khakis spill out the doors. Every single eye rakes over them. Zayn smiles and nods at each person.

A gaggle of teenage girls passes by. When an unknowing blonde accidently makes direct eye contact with him, Zayn nods serenely and says, “Hi there,” casual as ever. The girls turn as one to face him, eyes going wide as they take in his sweaty chest, Harry’s shoulder-length hair, and Louis’ deeply uncomfortable, definitely shifty eyes.

They immediately scurry down the steps and towards a group of women. The blonde tugs on the arm of what is most likely her mother, and points directly back at Zayn, lips moving rapidly. A scandalized look settles over the faces of the women in genuine unison.

As Louis watches a trio of high-heeled middle aged women stomp over to them, he sighs and closes his eyes. “Zayn, I fucking hate you.”

There’s a good old-fashioned Christian gasp. _“Watch your mouth, young man!”_

Ignoring the voice, Louis turns directly to Zayn. “I really and truly fucking hate you.”

The trio of women stop a good two feet before them. Harry clears his throat and attempts to speak, “Good morning! I—”

“And what, might I ask, are _y’all_ doing here?” one of the women demands, hands on her hips. “Can’t you tell this is a _church?_ I have half a mind to call the police myself!”

Louis’ eyes shoot wide. Police intervention was not on the list of horrible outcomes he had anticipated dealing with before noon today.

Zayn glides over her words, polite as always. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re missionaries, is the thing—” Harry stifles a snort. “—and we haven’t be able to eat in a few days. We thought this blessed congregation might be able to spare us a little generosity before we continue our mission.”

Louis is rooted to the spot by Zayn’s stupidity.

The woman has a nasty look on her face, but before she can open her mouth, a legitimate giant of a man appears in their midst, shirt collar so tight a ring of skin bulges out the top. “Now I’m only gonna say this once, you dirt-lickers. This here is private property and I’m gonna give y’all thirty seconds to get the _hell_ out of here—”

Louis turns one final time to Zayn, words short and to the point. “Fuck this, man.” He turns on his heel to make a quick getaway back to the Garbage Truck, Harry surely right behind.

He reaches the van in about two seconds flat and is just about to toss himself into the driver’s seat, but when he turns around he’s— he’s fucking _alone_. Harry and Zayn are exactly where he left them, only now Zayn appears to be mid-lecture, much to the stress and dismay of the small Christian huddle before them.

By this time, Louis is hungry. He’s tired. He’s suffered a massive heartbreak a mere eight hours before. He is not in the mood to fight the Southern Baptists. Zayn chose his fate. Harry? Well... He’ll be missed. Such is life.

So he sits on the hood of the van, resigned to do nothing more than wait until they come crawling back.

Two minutes go by, and then five, and Louis is getting increasingly bored now that imminent danger seems to have been avoided. He’s about to start the van and rev the engine repeatedly until the other two get the picture and come wandering home, when there’s a soft tap on his shoulder.

It’s a boy— a young man—standing directly beside him with an odd look in his eyes.

Louis blinks at him suspiciously. “Um. Hi?”

“I saw what those ladies said to you,” the boy says slowly. Pigeon-toed and clearly in his Sunday best, he’s got a deep voice and a syrupy southern accent. Louis has to bite back the urge to ask him if his name’s John-Boy. Willard, maybe. The boy shakes his head seriously, hands fisting at the ends of his pressed, white dress sleeves. “Wasn’t very Christian of ‘em, I don’t think.”

Louis coughs out an awkward laugh. “Uh, yeah. Guess not,” he shrugs, scratching lightly behind his ear. The boy’s eyes follow the movement, all round, wide, and curious. “No big deal though,” Louis adds and cranes his neck back to watch Zayn and Harry helplessly.

The boy digs the heel of his off-black dress shoe into the dusty grass. “Y’all are lookin’ for food, right?” His gaze follows Louis’ as he twists around, searching for the others. “I could fetch a—”

Louis barely has time to contemplate this strangely forward offer when the boy stops short, words swallowed, cut off neat and clean as if the breath had been ripped right from him. Louis looks back at him, confused, but the boy’s staring directly over his shoulder, blinking blankly.

“Lou,” a voice calls. “Shit, you’ll never believe what just happened.” He turns around to find Zayn and Harry, thankfully unscathed. “Making friends, too?” Harry jokes, plopping down on the hood beside him.

Louis frowns slightly before understanding what he means. “Oh, um—” but before he can even get another word in, the boy beats him to it.

“Liam Payne,” he says, hand extended directly towards Zayn.

Zayn startles and Louis blinks in surprise because, two days in, he think it’s suffice to say that Zayn isn’t a man easily startled. He’s silent just a moment too long and Louis’ about to poke him when he finally raises his hand, latching onto church-boy Liam.

“Zayn Javaad Malik,” he says quietly.

Liam is pink cheeked, and although Louis has a _fairly good_ idea of what’s just happened, his eyebrows are also sky high because— what the fuck just happened? A glance at Harry reveals a bemused smirk that seems to say they’re both thinking along the same lines.

Zayn and Liam drop hands. “My daddy’s got another service in five,” Liam suddenly says, wide eyes scanning the little group quickly before falling back to Zayn. “If y’all still want some food...I, uh, I think my mama’s got some bacon and toast I could serve up.”

Zayn looks to Harry who looks to Louis who, while obviously never one to pass up a free meal, has a nagging feeling that bumming food off the kid who’s apparently the _preacher’s son_ will raise some sort of qualms more likely than not, if the church hags from earlier are anything to go on.

“You sure that’d be okay?” Harry asks, hesitant.

Liam nods earnestly. Louis’ just about to politely decline, feeling vaguely weirded out by the whole thing, when Zayn, of course, butts in.

“That sounds great, Liam. Thanks, man.”

Alright, then. Breakfast with the preacher’s kid it is.

✘✘✘✘

The Payne household is about a forty-five second walk from the churchyard, which does nothing to sooth the nervy niggling in Louis’ stomach, and when Liam lets them in the front door of an off-white two story house that Louis could have sworn he’s seen in every movie ever set in the South, the tightening in his gut only heightens.

The living room they shuffle into is impeccable, all lace doilies and boring paintings. A large wooden cross hangs above the doorway on the far side of the room.

“Kitchen’s that way,” Liam jerks his thumb towards the door with the crucifix. “Y’all just take a seat.”

And so they traipse into a small, picturesque kitchen, and Louis takes the seat closest to Harry at the round wooden table and obviously does not consider making a run for it.

“Thank you, Liam,” Harry says politely, breaking the silence as Liam goes about grabbing a pack of pre-cut bacon from the fridge and lighting the stove. “Can I help with anything?”

Liam glances timidly over his shoulder. “No, I’m all good. Just give me a sec and it’ll be ready.” His words are addressed to Harry, but Louis can’t help but track the way his gaze slides over to Zayn as he speaks, almost unconsciously. He turns around again and busies himself at the stove.

“Y’all aren’t really missionaries, are you?”

Harry laughs loudly. “Oh, God. You heard that?”

Liam chuckles and nods. “Couldn’t help it, could I? What with the way y’all were carrying on with my aunt ‘n uncle, and all.” The skillet sizzles, and Liam looks back towards the table again. “So…” The word hangs in the sticky summer air. “If y’all ain’t missionaries...what’re you doing in Kelso, then?”

“Just passin’ through,” Louis replies.

Harry beams and knocks his shoulder. “On the way to California, all the way from Maine. We found Zayn on the side of the road in Ohio,” he adds.

Liam turns all the way around at that, clearly surprised. “You mean you were hitchhikin’?”

Zayn smiles. “Something like that.”

“And you weren’t afraid of gettin’ killed or nothing?”

Zayn merely laughs, as if this weren’t a perfectly reasonable question.

Louis isn’t sure he has anything else to add to the conversation and mostly just wants some grub, so he sits quietly while Harry makes small talk with Liam, Zayn interjecting curiously every so often.

It’s not long before the pleasantries die off and silence fills the room again.

With the rate at which this trip has been going, Louis isn’t sure why he’s as surprised by the following turn of events as he most definitely is:

“Take me with,” Liam says suddenly, clutching the greasy spatula to his chest. Oil and fatty drippings smear across the stiff, white cotton of his shirt.“I’ve got about forty bucks I can give y’all for gas,” he adds. His tone is dry and calm, like this is nothing at all, only the smallest hint of a tremor hidden underneath. The lines on his forehead say otherwise.

“You wanna go to California?” Harry blinks slowly, surprised.

Liam nods feverishly, glancing quickly at the backdoor. “Yeah. Let’s...I wanna go.” Louis’ sure his eyebrows must have disappeared into his hair they’re raised so high.

Harry pauses before carefully asking, “What about your parents?”

Liam shrugs quickly, almost defensively, and turns back to the stove, shuffling the bacon around.

No one speaks for a long moment.

Louis wants to say no. He realizes it’s stupid and hypocritical and probably a bit presumptuous, but something about the situation feels raw and huge and, yeah, he’d let Harry come, and they’d picked up Zayn on the side of the road, but they’d seemed confident. Calm. Not like they were suffocating and quite obviously diving into the first getaway car they could find.

“Liam,” he says gently, because he’s not an absolute asshole. “Are you sure that’s a smart idea, man? Like…” He turns to his friends for help, unsure of what to do. Zayn leans his chair back on two legs, face expressionless. Harry hasn’t taken his eyes off Liam once. “I mean— if you _want_ , but like—” He fumbles awkwardly, searching for the kindest way to say, _You’re the preacher’s son and we’re a bunch of gay stoners. This probably isn’t going to work out._ And also, you know, _Who the fuck are you?_

Liam swallows tightly, face flushed. “Please,” he says in a quiet, firm voice.

“We’re going to a Queen concert,” Louis replies, for lack of anything else to say. “You a fan?” Liam shrugs again, and piles the strips onto a flowery plate without looking up.

“And we…” Louis glances helplessly at Harry, but Harry’s still staring seriously at Liam, mouth opening and closing, like he’s confused but has something to say.

“We’re not really, like...religious, if you know what I mean, man?” Louis says. “That gonna be a problem?” Zayn makes a noise. Louis swallows. “Or, well. Zayn’s Muslim, I guess—”

“We smoke a lot of pot and kiss boys,” Harry cuts across him, _“_ __t_ hat _ gonna be a problem?” His tone isn’t unkind, but the words are firm and clear.

Liam’s head shoots up at that, eyes wide, and mouth slightly agape for just a beat before quickly trying and failing to rearrange his expression back into his previous nonchalance. He plops the plate down in the center of the table and throws himself into the last open chair.

“So, what do you think?” Zayn asks kindly.

When Liam doesn’t reply and merely blinks owlishly in response at the shirtless man in front of him, Zayn leans back again and folds his arms behind his head patiently.

The tension of it is a little too much. “I’m…” Louis says suddenly, standing up from the table and gesturing vaguely down the hall. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

“First door on the left,” Liam says quietly, and Louis nods awkwardly in thanks.

He lets out a deep breath the moment the door shuts behind him and stares at the light yellow wall straight ahead. There’s a cross in the center of it. Louis shakes his head, unzips his fly, and tries not to think about the fact that Jesus is apparently watching him pee.

When he steps out again, he can see Zayn through the screened-in door on the far side of the kitchen, smoking on the back step. Harry’s switched seats to be right next to Liam, and their heads are both bowed, Liam’s eyes wide with whatever Harry’s been telling him.

“It’s like I said,” Harry says quietly. “I get it.” Liam nods, lips pursed.

Zayn comes back in and the screened in door slams shut loudly. “So,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “You wanna get out of here?” he asks with finality, expectant and serious.

Liam barely hesitates before nodding. “Yeah.”

“Go get your shit then, man,” Harry says. “We gotta leave before your folks get home.”

✘✘✘✘

Ten minutes later, Zayn, Harry, and Louis are standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Liam to get his ass in gear.

“So,” Louis says casually, turning to Harry. “Are your parents super religious, too, or something?” He nods towards the kitchen, thinking of Harry and Liam’s conversation from prior.

Harry frowns. “No. Why?”

Before Louis can respond, Liam appears at the top of the tears, face showing clear signs of panic.

“You ain’t gonna kill me?” he verifies, rooted to the spot, duffle bag hooked over his shoulder.

“No, of course not,” and “Couldn’t we just say no and kill you anyways?” Harry and Louis respond respectively.

 _“Lou!”_ Harry hisses, knocking him hard in the stomach with his elbow. “You’ll be fine with us, Liam.”

Liam doesn’t look particularly convinced. “Listen, dude. You’re the one that said you wanted to get the fuck out of here,” Louis points out, rubbing his stomach. “In or out, make a decision so we can beat it before your old man gets home...” His palms are prickling nervously. “Speaking of...shouldn’t you write a note to your parents at least?” Louis asks, looking around as if they might magically appear.

Liam looks stricken at the very thought.

“Liam,” Harry says softly, holding out his hand. “Let’s just...come on. Let’s just go.”

Louis can literally see the poor guy steeling himself, the weight of what had been a very easy decision to just _Go_ for everyone else involved clearly hitting him in a way that it had not impacted any of the rest.

He puts one foot on the top stair. And then the other.

“Okay.” He huffs out a breath, a cross somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “Let’s go.”

✘✘✘✘

Liam informs them that the service is still in progress when they slip out the front door, but the air in the group still somehow has the vibe of a kidnapping or heist. Louis walks quickly, edging away from the other three to open the sliding door of the Garbage Truck.

“After you, Mr. Runaway,” he jokes, holding his arm out like a doorman. Liam smiles feebly and crawls inside, arranging himself awkwardly against the far wall. He runs his hands over the shag carpet and looks around, eyes wide.

Louis hops into the driver’s seat and quickly turns the key in the ignition. Rather than firing, the engine revs, gravely and loud. “Shit,” he mutters apologetically, glancing out the window as if the Reverend himself is about to come storming down the street. He has to try twice more unsuccessfully before the van finally starts. “Sorry,” he comments over his shoulder. “Stupid piece of shit does this sometimes.”

The silence in the van only underscores the intensity of the moment. Louis tries not to wonder what his own mother would’ve done if he’d just upped and run away one day.

“So…” Louis says as they pull away. “What do you say, Liam? This more a ‘I Will Survive’ situation or ‘Highway to Hell?’ Not that I actually own any Gloria Estefan, but I’m sure Harry here would be more than happy to oblige us with a rousing rendition...”

Louis is rambling, he’s well aware, but he can’t seem to stop. He glances in the rearview mirror and catches a glimpse of a quickly fading biblical gas station, and then a much longer look at the nervous silence of the boy sat cross legged in the backseat. Liam swallows, brows drawn tight.

 _“At first I was afraid, I was petrified,”_ Louis’ gaze flicks back to front, and he can’t help but chuckle at the quiet voice coming from the captain seat besides him. _“_ _Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...”_

“Oh, fuck off,” Zayn drawls, tossing one of Louis’ dirty t-shirts at the back of Harry’s head. _“Both_ of you,” he adds when Louis snickers. “Pass the tape box.”

“So, Liam,” Harry says, undeterred. “You don’t know Queen,” he ticks up a finger as he awkwardly hands the heavy box over. “You don’t know Gloria Estefan. You heard of Pink Floyd?” He plucks at the rainbow prism of his own black t-shirt.

Louis watches with one eye on the mirror, one on the road as Liam shakes his head slightly. It’s not defiant, he thinks, and it’s not quite embarrassed, but the corner of Liam’s mouth tightens and his left foot, which had started tapping relentlessly about two minutes ago, falters a little.

Louis’ just about to remind the kid that there’ll be no second thoughts or _I wanna go home!’s_ on this trip when Harry’s fingers press lightly on his thigh, pointed and firm.

And just like that, just from one simple touch, the remnants of last night’s emotions, forgotten in all the commotion, suddenly burst to the surface once again. Louis’ mouth tightens. It’s stupid, and after everything that happened to today, he _feels_ stupid, but he can’t help but wiggle away from Harry’s lingering hand.

“What bands _do_ you like, Liam?” Zayn asks kindly, and Louis keeps his eyes on the road despite Harry’s confused stare, not even sure himself what it is exactly that he’s feeling.

“I, um,” Liam clears his throat gruffly. “Well. I got a Styx tape at home,” he says. “That’s— well, that’s pretty much it, I guess.”

Louis blinks as the dirt road turns back into gravel. One tape? And even worse—  _Styx?_

“Which one?” Zayn says before anyone in the front can react. “Those two probably have a hundred tapes up there. Bet they have—”

“Styx…” Harry mumbles, cutting in before Zayn’s even finished, already rooting around inside the tape box.

“Um,” Liam hums awkwardly. _“_ The album’s _The Grand Illusion_. The one with like… “Come Sail Away”?”

Louis scoffs, but Harry silences him with a look. “Shit,” he says apologetically. “I don’t think I’ve got that one actually, Liam. Sorry.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Louis says. The van suddenly feels all at once too humid and hot. Crowded. A foggy, shifty feeling settles in his chest. “I’d been starting to get Mary Poppins vibes over here.”

Harry makes like he’s going to playfully shove at Louis’ thigh, and when his fingers hit denim, they sort of... just don’t leave. Again.

Louis stares resolutely ahead.

“Sorry, Li,” Zayn says then, and hand-on-thigh, foggy-mind, tight-chest feeling aside, Louis has to glance at Harry out of the corner of his eye because _Li?_   Harry arches an eyebrow in amused agreement.

Louis refuses to allow himself to further contemplate their improving telepathy.

Apparently, he muses bitterly to himself, he’d been able to feign normalcy for all of four hours. What with all the events of the morning, it had been easy to block out last night’s… very existence. His early morning ‘resolution’ seems a lot less peace-inspiring with Harry awake besides him in the captain's seat. Grinning and laughing. Touching Louis like it costs him nothing.

Like he’d probably touch anyone, Louis thinks.

He fidgets with that sunshade and then rolls the window halfway down and then up again as he drives. Anything to avoid fixating on the way Harry’s thumb keeps pressing into his thigh.

“So…” Louis says slowly, letting the vowel drag out. “Are we gonna get any backstory here?” His hand makes a rolling, leading motion.

“Backstory?” Liam repeats. His voice is deep and thick, Louis thinks, and he tries to force himself to zero in on that and that only.

“Yeah!” Louis nods, overenthusiastic. “I mean. To be blunt, you sort of just ran away from home.” He pauses for a moment and then smiles widely. “And that sort of makes us your saviors, I think,” he teases.

“Leave him alone, Lou,” Harry says. “He’s had a long day…”  Louis frowns, put out even further by this newly protective Harry.

The tell-tale scent of weed fills the air. Harry reaches behind him for the joint Zayn passes him, inhaling before handing it off to Louis. Liam coughs quietly.

Neither Harry nor Liam respond say anymore on the subject, so after considering them shrewdly for a moment or two longer, Louis rolls his eyes— mostly at Harry— and turns the stereo up a bit louder.

God. All he’d wanted was to see Freddie Mercury and to have someone split the gas.

He stares out the window down the endless lines of white and takes a hit of the joint.

✘✘✘✘

They carry on like that for a while, with the music too loud for conversation and the air thick with smoke.

The sun is bright and the landscape’s just _finally_ starting to get sort-of, kind-of interesting— or, as interesting as the Midwest possibly can get— but it’s too quiet, and everyone’s tucked away with their own thoughts. Louis hates it.

He’s just about to clear the air, formally break Liam in somehow— ask him if he wants some M&Ms maybe, play their hundredth round of i-spy, or even ask Zayn to show off one of his weirdo paintings, when he notices something’s off. Not _in_ the van.

 _With_ the van.

They’re decelerating. He taps the gas experimentally, expecting a lurch or a—

“Oh, _fuck.”_ Just as the van rolls to a stop, Louis realizes what’s happened.

“What the hell?” Harry asks, wide eyed and startled awake from his dreamy stupor.

Louis slumps back in his seat, face rapidly flushing. This cannot be happening. “Um,” he mumbles in disbelief. “So. Remember how this van is a piece of shit?”

Silence.

He gestures awkwardly at Harry. “The gas gauge...like. It’s broken. Remember?”

Harry groans and tosses his head back against the seat. “Lou…”

“We run out of gas?” Liam asks in disbelief from the back. It’s the first thing he’s said in an hour.

“Um,” Louis repeats.

They all stare out at the scene around them: Trees. Road. Sky.

“I”m—uh,” Harry laughs nervously. “Just going out on a limb here— I’m guessing you don’t have like...an extra canister?”

Louis glares at him in response.

“So what’s next then?” Zayn asks casually, still stretched out in the back. He sniffles lazily.

Louis looks at Harry and Harry looks at Liam and Liam sort of looks like he’s about to die a little bit, so Louis allows himself ten more seconds to feel like the complete and utter idiot that he is— images of red and white Jesus gas stations flood his brain— and then,

“Alright, boys,” he announces, hands still clasped tight on the wheel. “And now— we push.”

The silence that engulfs the van is thick. Palpable.

It’s Harry that breaks it. “Okay,” he says haltingly, almost cautiously, as if Louis has lost his mind. “Push. Right. Can I ask _where_ exactly you’d like us to push this beast?”

“No,” Louis responds shortly, steeling himself before cracking open his door. He pauses before jumping out. “That would require that I have an answer.”

✘✘✘✘

In the months during which Louis had planned this little trip, he can safely say that the worst possible scenario he had accounted for was _what do I do if I have to shit when we’re in the middle of nowhere?_ The answer (according to Stan), was _find a ditch and squat,_ which had always seemed like an apt price to pay for the reward around which the whole damn trip was centered: Freddie Mercury.

He considered lesser situations, too, of course. Boredom. Oli’s farts violating the van. However, standing in ninety degree heat somewhere around the border of Kansas and Missouri with three strangers and a gassed-out car was not one of them.

“Louis,” Harry says tonelessly as they congregate around the back of the Garbage Truck, “I’m going to fucking murder you in your sleep.”

“Thanks, man,” Louis huffs, giving the bumper an experimental, and ultimately worthless, shove. “Do the job for me. I can appreciate that.” The van sits motionless. Mockingly, even.

 _Fuck,_ what are they supposed to do?

“Put ‘er in neutral,” Liam responds, and Louis startles, unaware he’d been thinking out loud.

Zayn nods in sage agreement. “Put it in neutral, one person steers, three people push,” he adds calmly. “We can take turns.”

Louis wipes a stream— not a bead, a _stream_ — of sweat off his temple and curses.

“Okay. Uh, Liam— go ahead and take first turn steering, I guess.”  He says it out of obligation more than anything else. Poor Liam. He probably feels as if he’s chosen to enter the plot of a soon-to-be horror story.

Liam frowns, hands deep in the back pockets of his dark blue jeans. “Me?” A hand flies up to point gingerly at his plaid-shirted chest. “Nah, I’m alright. I’m— this has happened to me once or twice,” he admits. He straightens up slightly and his shoulders roll back. If Louis didn’t know better, he’d think little Liam were trying to act tough. If he _knew_ him a little better, he’d call his shit on it, too.

Unlikely at this point, he thinks tiredly. The kid’s probably gonna find the first pay phone he can— whenever that might be— and beg his Reverend Daddy to let him come home.

Louis sighs. “Harry? Zayn?” he offers, rocking back on his heels, arms crossed. More sweat slides down his neck.

And then Harry promptly shucks his shirt. Like, just peels it off and drapes it over his shoulder. “I’ll push,” he says. The band of his jeans hits his hips low and loose. Lines and veins and not definition, not muscle, just— Louis swallows hard and suddenly doesn’t hate himself so much for getting them all into this predicament— _skin._ So much _skin_. Add it to the list of scenarios that Louis never considered prior to four days ago— prior to meeting Harry Styles, more specifically.

“Suit yourself,” Zayn says, shuffling to the driver’s side door with a look that clearly says he thinks that Harry’s gone crazy.

Louis grimaces and forces himself to watch him go, if only in a feeble attempt to stop ogling Harry.

One. Two. Three, he counts internally, trying to steady himself. “Well, boys,” he sighs, turning to face the Garbage Truck, hands on hips. “Let’s get a move on, I guess.”

Harry’s already gone around back, and when Louis and Liam make their way over with slightly less enthusiasm, he’s standing there staring at the bumper, hand on his chin, nodding shrewdly.

They’re out of gas.

They’re out of gas in the middle of fucking nowhere, and yet there Louis is, legitimately unable to keep himself from staring at a shirtless Harry Styles as if this is the first time he’s seen the dude shirtless. As if he hasn’t slept crammed up next to him for nights on end now. As if he didn’t wrestle him butt-naked in a river twenty-four hours prior.

Louis sort of wants to scream.

“Alright,” Harry says decisively, as if he has any fucking clue what he’s doing, “Louis,” he grunts, bending down to rest his hands against the dirty back bumper. “Come ‘ere. Just—” he gives the metal a hefty shove with little result, “you go next to me, yeah? Take the middle. And then,” he lifts one hand to point, “Liam, you take the other end. So it’s like...Liam on one end, Louis in the middle, then me.”

“Kinky,” Louis mutters automatically, still surveying the scene; only when Harry catches his eye and grins cheekily does Louis blush and roll his eyes, realizing he’s been heard.

“Alright,” Liam says, and then _he’s_  sighing and unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a sweat-soaked white undershirt, and Louis can’t quite remember why he was so annoyed about this situation before.

Without complaint, Liam joins Harry at the bumper and bends down as well. They do a test-push together, both bent at the waist, shoulders hunched, asses out; the van rolls a foot or two, and Zayn lets out a whoop from the driver’s seat. Louis stands motionless, feeling slightly attacked by the sight before him.

Gay, he thinks. I am so very, very gay.

But there’s hundreds of pounds of rubber and metal to push, so he kicks that thought promptly from his brain. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on the sweat-filled dimples of Harry’s back, either. Much.

It’s sweaty, curse-filled work, but between the three of them, it’s not exactly difficult to get the van rolling and going. “Not too bad,” Louis comments after not nearly enough time for one to have actually judged whether this hellish activity is or is not _‘bad.’_ “Could be worse, at least.”

 _“Fuck you,_ ” Harry gasps. “Now you’ve fucking jinxed us! Go find some wood to knock on!” he commands, only half joking.

Louis shrugs and readjusts his angle, puts more shoulder into it. “Meh,” he mumbles “Pretty sure this is about as fast as we go when I’m stoned. So...we’re probably not making bad time.”

Harry laughs in agreement, and even Liam, bless his poor heart, chuckles quietly as he wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Liam’s big and broad, Louis notices, then. Like, bigger than all the rest of them. Probably a solid fifty pounds on Zayn and Louis himself, at least. And it’s not that he’s sad looking or even upset— really he just looks more hot and tired than anything— but his quiet laughter is definitely aimed mostly at his feet, and that sort of pricks at Louis, makes him give the kid a cursory look over. Because big and broad or not, Liam’s almost certainly still a kid, and maybe… maybe Louis shouldn’t have been so nosy earlier on.

“So, Liam. Feelin’ the regret, yet?” he jokes, nudging him right in the dip of his side with the bony part of his elbow. “Missing out on your AC back home yet?”

He means it as a harmless joke— shit, who amongst them _doesn’t_ miss AC— but Liam’s face falls a little, his shy grin faltering just as quickly as he works to rearrange his sour expression through a scrunch of the nose and a little cough.

Louis kicks himself. Zero mentions of home or anything related to it, then. Noted.

“Nah,” Liam denies. “Reckon I’ve done this,” he gives the tire beside his foot a kick, “a hundred times. In heat hotter than hell, too,” he adds. The van gives an extra forceful roll forward in time with his words. “I’m good,” he says. Louis nearly believes him.

“You’re gonna love Queen,” Harry says suddenly. “Just so you know. We’ll play you everything we’ve got after this shit show’s over. Louis here can give you the whole backstory too.” He reaches over to playfully poke at Louis’ hip. “Like of all the songs or whatever. He’s good at that sort of stuff.”

“Okay,” Liam agrees easily, saving Louis and his furiously blushing face a reply. They’re all quiet for a moment then; tiny pebbles crunch beneath the tires of the van. “I appreciate it,” Liam finally says. “What y’all are doin’ for me.”

“We aren’t doing anything—” Harry protests.

Liam shrugs. “Got me out of that shit hole town, didn’t ya? That’s somethin’. Probably damn near saved my life, reckon.”

Christ. “I wouldn’t go that far, bud,” Louis says brightly, if only to cut the sudden weight in the air. “Give us a few days.”

“Just take a sip of Zayn’s water bottle,” Harry agrees, thankfully just as casual. “That’ll do the job.”

“His water bottle?” Liam asks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as Louis squawks with laughter.

“Oh, _Liam_...do we have a story for you.”

✘✘✘✘

The first twenty minutes really aren’t bad. Fuck, even the first hour isn’t hell on Earth.

They rotate in and out of the front seat; Zayn, then Harry, then Liam, then Louis. They even try to have all four push at the same time, maximum man-power and all that, but it goes to shit pretty quickly, of course, and ends with much yelling, cursing, and having to push the damn thing back up out of a shallow ditch, so. There goes that.

It’s only after the third time that Louis— a martyr, _obviously_ — rejects Liam’s offer to switch back up to the front that Louis realizes Harry’s been brushing it off as well. Has actually stayed right by his side, shirtless and sweaty and full of rambling stories and introspective observations about the flat, yellowy-brown brush and fields around them.

“You know. I bet there’s bits of land out here— like way out here in the middle of nowhere— that no one’s ever walked on before. Or even touched. Like,” Harry brushes a frizzy curl out of his face and points far off into the distance, “over... _there.”_ Louis squints and nods like he knows what he’s referring to. “What if no one’s ever even been in that _exact_ spot before?”

Zayn hums in agreement, as if genuinely dumbfounded by this thought. And like, Louis’ dumbfounded, too. Sure. But it’s the kind that comes with a smile that he can’t bite back— doesn’t even try to bite back— and a gentle roll of his eyes, because he’s tired and his feet fucking hurt, _fuck,_ but Harry’s just— so—

Harry’s watch says it’s only two in the afternoon, which means it’s been like. God. What? Twelve hours since Louis nearly lost his shit in the back of his damn van over the boy he has a crush on? And it’s like it all just keeps ebbing and flowing— this weird tide of _I won’t care if he doesn’t_ and _He cares He cares He cares_ and _Who cares Who cares Who Cares_ , and—

Harry’s fingers brush over the backs of Louis’ knuckles, hot and damp.

Then they’re gone.

And, “We should sleep outside tonight. Like. Under the stars.” Harry’s smiling this big huge grin and his nose is just so fucking sunburned Louis can hardly stand it.

“Only if we make sure to stop in a place where we’ll be the first people to have ever slept there,” Louis agrees.

“And if we get bitten by scorpions?” Harry wiggles his eyebrows dramatically and gives a hefty push.

Hmphf. “Worth it,” Louis says easily.

“And if a coyote comes for us?”

“I can definitely run faster than you, so—”

“Hey!” Harry cuts him off. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Louis smirks. “You don’t have to outrun the coyote, Styles. Just your slowest friend.”

“He’s right, you know,” Zayn agrees. “My friend Zou-Zou almost fought a coyote when he lived in Arizona. Just ran like hell, though. Left his dealer to deal with it.” He pauses, pondering. “Fate, man.”

“See there,” Louis nods approvingly. “Even Zayn knows.” God, his hands and his feet are practically numb at this point.

“And what makes you think you can out run me, Tomlinson?” Harry sniffs.

“What? Wanna put it to the test?” His feet are genuinely on the verge of falling off, so why in hell he's putting himself up to this he doesn't know, but—

“You’re fucking _on,”_ Harry says in a low, deep voice, coming to a stop.

Louis grins and stops as well.

Whatever. Who needs legs, right?

“Alright, alright,” he raises his hands. “Zayn. You’re the judge, man, okay?”

“What’re ya'll doin'?” Liam calls out from the front, head poking out the window.

“I’m about to whoop Harry’s ass in a race, that’s what!” Louis yells back, waving his hand for Liam to join them.

Harry stands on his tip-toes and peers off into the distance ahead of them. “First one to that dead bush over there?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Which one?”

“The one that sort of looks like a pig?”

Louis huffs and steps to the side, giving himself a clear path. “I hate that I know exactly which one you’re talking about,” he mutters and turns around to do a few showy stretches.

Except when he looks back, Harry’s just sort of— staring at him, eyes wide, and—

_Oh._

A warm tingly feeling sets into Louis’ feet, and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the miles and miles they’ve walked.

It feels good, okay. Whatever Harry had said or implied last night, it feels good to know that he’s not alone in this— this weird state of perpetual attraction.

Louis grins, emboldened.

“Ready, Styles?”

Harry struts around the van as well, all bravado. “Last one gets eaten by a coyote.”

“Okay,” Zayn says solemnly. “On the count of three. One. Two—”

They both take off running early.

Harry loses, and when he crashes, fumbling and panting, straight into Louis’ back, it’s like Louis’ lungs are on fire he’s laughing so hard, and Harry’s right there, wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist and hauling him off the ground, yelling and laughing, and bellowing  _“Fuck you, you cheated!”_

They stay like that for a long few moments. Out of breath and leaning on each other for support. Touching and feeling and laughing and panting.

Louis leans down, bracing his hands on his knees. “Told you,” he says breathlessly, tilting his head back to look up at Harry “Coyote snack.”

Harry beams, and Louis beams, and they’ve been walking for two hours, and their van is out of gas, but.

So what. It isn’t so bad.

✘✘✘✘

It’s extremely bad.

They get there in the end. To fucking gas station that is.

It appears in the far off distance like an oasis in the desert, tiny and shabby and possibly holy.

“There she is!” Zayn moans, probably on the verge of hysterics. Louis doesn’t even want to know what time it is. “Look at her…she’s beautiful...”

Harry steers them that last half mile or so down the straight shot towards the run down brick and wood building. It's surrounded by a whole lot of nothing but trees and dirt, a few more buildings or houses only just visible even farther off in the distance. It feels a bit like the last few yards of a marathon, Louis thinks. Or maybe like approaching the pearly gates of heaven.

Except this St. Peter seems to be in need of a shave and possibly a bath.

A burly old man is camped out in a lawn chair right out front the door, decked in the whole nine yards: faded, dirty blue jeans; faded, gray button down; faded, ratty baseball cap; faded, stained rag over his shoulder.

Louis’ sure they look like quite the gang rolling up to the party, shirtless and sunburned and more than a little bit slap-happy.

“We made it!” Harry cheers through the window as they roll into the drive, arm waving, fist pumping. “Yes! Yes! _Yes!”_

It take a bit of maneuvering and a lot of bickering to get the van up next to the pump, throughout all of which the old man sits silently, chewing his cheek.

Harry hops out of the cabin and makes a beeline for Louis. “So much for Southern hospitality, huh?” he whispers-giggles, nodding towards the man.

Liam strides right up to the lawn chair like the nice young man he is. “Afternoon, sir,” he says, stretching out his hand in greeting. “Ran out of gas a few miles back. Had to push ‘er all the way here.” The man considers him for a moment before grasping his hand and giving it a slow, hard shake.

Louis looks around awkwardly. “So...is it self service?” he gestures at the pump. “Or…?”

The man merely fixes him with a long, hard stare before standing himself up and crossing over to the pump.

“Ooo-kay,” Louis says, arm dropping back to his side. “Well, uh...well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m fucking starving so…” He gestures at the tiny store, and there’s a murmur of assent as everyone files their way inside the stifling storefront, if three racks, a counter, and a yellow fridge could be called that.

Louis makes straight for the candy, already eyeing the box of M&M packets with hunger. “Lou,” Harry says reprovingly from over by the chips and God-knows how old sandwiches, “You need to eat something besides M&Ms.”

“And _you_ need to step away from those sandwiches unless you wanna be shitting for days.”

“I’m gonna take a piss real quick,” Liam mumbles, jerking his thumb towards the green door next to the counter that reads Bathroom in peeling white letters. “Be right back.” Just as bathroom door swings shut, the bell above the front door chimes again.

The old man shuffles inside, wiping his hands on his dirty rag, and for a second Louis gets distracted from his mission of stocking up on as many M&M packets as possible because the man’s still sort of chewing his cheek, and it’s even more disconcerting up close.

“So,” the man says. His voice is exactly what one would expect a fairly terrifying middle-of-nowhere gas station attendant’s voice to sound like. “Boys.” He leans over and snatches up a tin cup off the top of his shitty checkout and hocks a big, brown loogie in it.

Ah, Louis thinks in mild revulsion. Chew.

The man doesn’t say anything else for a long second.

“...yeah?” Zayn ventures, pleasant as ever.

The man smirks then— or well, the corners of his lips turn up, and on a normal human that would be considered a smirk— and leans up against the counter, arms crossed, hip popped in what Louis assumes is a display of Southern Gas Station Dominance. Louis glances over at Zayn momentarily and then over to Harry.

“Found somethin’ pretty interestin’ in that there van of yours, ya know,” the man finally says, gums smacking wetly every few words.

Both Louis’ stomach and a package of M&Ms drop to his feet. He quickly stoops to grab the candy, and when he stands, his eyes find Harry’s once again across the tiny room. He imagines they’re as wide as his own.

“Um?” Louis says, and then promptly resolves to never speak again, astounded by just how high pitched and _guilty_ his own damn voice sounds.

 _“Pre-_ tty interestin’,” the man repeats. His eyes pan over them, one by one.

“And?” Zayn asks, voice as light as ever.

The man’s smirk widens, stretching every wrinkle on his face taught, and he holds up three half-smoked joints. “Mind explain’ what these are, boys?”

Silence.

The toilet flushes from inside the bathroom, followed by the sink, and then—

“What’s goin'...on?” Liam reappears only to freeze in the doorway to the bathroom.

The man doesn’t turn to look at him. “Y’all got two options, alright? I’ll let you decide which one you want,” he says slowly, crossing behind the counter to settle onto a wooden stool.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“Two options?” Louis mouths in confusion, looking back and forth between Zayn and Harry, heart stuck somewhere between pounding and getting lodged in his ass.

Zayn and the old man now appear to be engaged in some sort of staring contest, wordless and expressionless.

“Two options?” Harry mouths back.

Liam is most definitely going to go home after this.

Zayn stares some more at the old man and the old man stares right back.

And then Zayn fucking books it.

“ZAYN!” Louis shouts, totally taken aback, but holy shit if he isn’t running out of there right after him, knocking down an entire rack of chips in the process. _“What the FUCK?”_

Harry follows suit thankfully, and then Louis is flinging himself into the front seat of van, the others tossing themselves into the back.

Except— “Liam!” Harry shouts. “Liam! What the fuck, come on, man!”

Liam’s stuck in the doorway. Fight or flight, Liam chose to fucking _freeze_.

Louis shoves the key in the ignition. “Get in the Garbage Truck, Liam! Get in the fucking Garbage Truck!” The engine revs and turns once, and then twice. Fuck, fuck, holy flying fuck.

Liam startles as if suddenly waking and darts out as well, the old man hobbling behind him.

“We have to pay!” Liam yelps, stopping short right before the open van door.

They should have left him with the motherfucking Southern Baptists.

“Shut the fuck up, you idiot, just get in the truck!” The engine turns a third time and the finally, fucking _finally_ starts.

While still a veritable idiot, Liam, it seems, is also the only one of them with good sense, seeing as he darts around to the other side to quickly unhook the gas hose before running back around and throwing himself in the open door, all to the soundtrack of the old man yelling, “I’ll call the cops, you druggies! I’ll call the cops!”

Louis throws it in drive and slams on the gas. The side door is still swinging open and Liam’s right foot is left dangling out as they tear down the gravel drive, but who the hell cares?

“What the hell was that!” Liam shouts, pushing himself up off the shag carpet and onto his knees. “What the—Why— ” he splutters, red faced and utterly shocked. _“_ _This isn’t even a Garbage Truck!”_

✘✘✘✘

The next half hour is tense. Like. Holy shit we just got caught with marijuana and then stole a tank of gas tense. Like. We’re in a huge orange and yellow van, probably the only one for miles around, if not the _state_ , and that guy said he’s gonna call the cops on us and we are an easy fucking target.

But another half hour hour passes in a blur of adrenaline and disbelief, and then another, and nothing so far has happened, which seems like an honest to God miracle, so no one is holding their breath, but then—

“Pull off, will ya?” Liam suddenly asks, shattering the silence that’d overtaken the van since the last wave of _fuck we’re going to jail_ had petered out. “I’ve gotta take another leak. Christ.”

And then laughter fills the air, bombastic and manic and absolutely raucous.

God, Louis finds himself crying he’s laughing so hard, and he’s got a stitch in his side from it, so he pulls off, throwing his head against the rest in utter exhaustion.

“Fucking Liam.” He shakes his head and slaps his hands against the wheel. “I thought we were gonna have to leave you behind.”

Zayn chuckles in agreement. “All _three_ of your faces... _RUN!_ ” He mimicks Louis’ high, panicked voice and gets an old candy wrapper tossed in face.

The van rolls to a stop, and Liam tumbles out immediately, hands already on his fly, Zayn following after. Which leaves Harry and Louis alone, in the van with the gas that they more or less (definitely more rather than less) just stole.

Louis’ leg twitches. He’s definitely still got a lifetime’s worth of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Harry shifts in the captain’s seat to look at him, and for a moment they both just stare at each other, smiles growing and growing and growing.

Louis doesn’t know what’s going on between them. He doesn’t know what’s going on in Harry’s head at all. But there is one thing for certain:

“You know,” Louis begins casually. His voice doesn’t shake, and that counts as a win. “I feel like I’ve gotten a lot cooler since I started hanging out with you.” He watches Harry crane his neck towards the window, watches as he grins at the soft, curious look on Liam’s face while Zayn chats beside him. “Picking up hitchhikers. Stealing runaway church boys. Evading arrest. What’re you gonna bring next, Styles? Huh?”

Harry snorts. “You’re right. Very cool stuff there. And I’m _obviously_ the cause of it all, so—”

“Hey, I’m just saying...” Louis laughs. His head feels weird and light. “I’d never done any of those things before I met you.”

“And you think I have?” Harry responds, amused. He’s got bags under his eyes, and his hair’s just about the messiest thing Louis has ever seen, and every five seconds he peeks back out the window to snicker at their new friends.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Louis says seriously. “Seems like you’ve got a knack for attracting this sort of stuff.”

Harry shakes his head. “Who says it’s not _you_ that’s attracting it?”

Louis shrugs. “Me,” he says simply.

“Ah,” Harry nods, as if that explains it. “Okay. Understood.” They’re quiet again, and Louis’ heartrate apparently can’t decide if it wants to slow down or speed up, but he’ll take it. He’ll take it.

“ _I_ , on the other hand, feel like it’s Liam Payne that just keeps raising more questions than answers,” Harry says decidedly, turning back to the window. They watch as Liam buttons his fly and stands bashfully as Zayn continues with whatever drawn out story he’s on, cigarette waving back and forth as he speaks. “You think he’ll bite the whole fluoride thing?” Harry smirks, turning back to center

Louis shrugs silently again and doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. Because they’re alone, finally _alone_ for the first time in days, and Harry’s folded up into the captain's seat as always— _God,_ does he ever sit normally— and he’s smiling at Louis, lips closed, all dimple, as if it were all for him.

In this moment, it really seems like it could be all for him.

Harry tips his head back against the seat. “And to go back to your original point— I’m pretty sure _Zayn_ has made us both immeasurably cooler.” His eyes crinkle. “Remember that first night we were alone together? We ate burgers and went to bed at like ten…” Louis shakes his head, already knowing where this is going. “Pretty lame if you ask me.”

 _You’re wrong!_ He wants to shout. _It was incredible and perfect and I got to lay next to you. I woke up next to you. I talked to you uninterrupted for hours._

He doesn’t say this, of course. He rolls his eyes and fidgets with the front of his hair. Looks evasively out the window over Harry’s shoulder.

Liam and Zayn haven’t moved but to angle themselves inwards, two question marks poised to become commas. There’s a blatant element of confusion etched into the skin around Liam’s eyes, but then Zayn must say something funny and the divots become laugh lines, deep and bold.

“How do you think that’ll play out?” Harry says quietly, watching the same spot.

Louis shrugs for a third time. “All I know is that kid probably has bigger balls than any of us.”

Which just.

Fuck.

If fucking Liam Payne, preacher’s son from Kelso City, population twelve hundred, can make the most of an opportunity presented to him—

Louis doesn’t let himself think twice.

Harry must’ve been about to respond, but the words are caught in a muffled mess, cut off by Louis’ lips on his own.

Louis presses in hard, and it’s probably terrible, who even fucking knows, but it was an opportunity presented to him, and opportunity, opportunity, everything about this whole week has been an opportunity, so—

Harry pulls back slightly, cheeks pink. “Alright then,” he mumbles. “You finally made your own move.”

“Fuck off, Styles,” Louis mutters and grabs the back of his neck to pull him back in.

Ten days to California.

Four down.

Six to go.

✘✘✘✘

They start the Queen tapes back from one that afternoon. Blast them, windows down, all in the name of Liam Payne’s music edification. Louis shares his M&M’s, and Zayn drives, and Harry’s got his head in Louis’ lap. His feet are kicked up so they’re right next to Liam’s face where he sits in the captain's seat, and it takes Liam a while, probably 'til the end of the first album, just to muster up the courage to tell Harry to fuck off, but he gets there in the end. Louis just about dies of laughter, almost feels like a proud mother watching her son come out of his shell, and Harry pretends to smack him in response— _“Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side!”_ — and Zayn tells them all to shut up. Liam smiles shyly, and for the first time since that side of the road in Ohio, Louis thinks to himself: “I’m glad you’re all here.”

There’s a shift in the van after that afternoon. It’s not big or bright, but it’s there, warm and comfortable. It says California or bust, and it comes in a package of four.

✘✘✘✘

It’s not until after a greasy diner dinner, long after the sun’s gone down, that Harry reminds them of his plan for their sleeping arrangements.

His legs are tangled up with Louis’ when he says, “There’s too many of us to sleep in here anyways,” and if Louis weren’t already sold on principle alone, he thinks the warm press of Harry’s skin on his would do the job anyways.

And so Zayn turns the wheel down the first dirt road exit they come across. They drive, music down low, until they come across a spot that seems as good as any, about fifteen minutes off the highway and probably on some farmer’s private land, but it’s almost midnight and they’ve already broken one law today, so why not go for double?

It’s flat and grassy, like pretty much every other bit of Kansas and Missouri that they’ve driven past for the last eight hours, and a voice in the back of Louis’ head is sort of worried about getting bitten by something, or worse, their coyote fears coming true, but when Zayn rolls to a stop in front of a soft swell of land right below a huge green tree, all he can do is slide the van door open, crawl out, and stare up at the sky above them.

“Shit,” Harry whispers, staring up as well at the sea of stars above them, stretching out and out as far as the eye can see.

“Same stars as back home,” Louis says without thinking. “Weird.”

Harry looks over at him then. “Exactly the same,” he agrees. “But somehow… totally different.” He pauses, turning slowly in a circle as he stares up in awe. “Does that make sense?”

Zayn meanders out in front of them, hands deep in his pockets as he examines the sky, just as entranced as they are. “Definitely. Think the same thing wherever I am.”

Louis watches as Liam sort of wanders after Zayn and wonders if he even realizes he’s doing it. “Ground’s gonna hurt like hell,” Liam comments, looking back and forth between the sky, the grassy ground, and the boy before him.

“You can lay on my vest if you want,” Zayn offers. “It’s actually pretty good for that sort of thing. And I like to feel the Earth when I sleep,” he adds.

“I couldn’t do that,” Liam protests. “I was just sayin’ is all! I’ll be alright. Nothin’ I’ve never done before.”

Louis’ laughing a little to himself as he watches the pair, and he’s just poised to make a teasing comment, when there’s a voice in his ear, warm breath tickling his skin.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Louis turns at the voice, and Harry’s pressed in so close they almost bump noses. “I feel like I gotta stretch my legs or I’ll die,” he says, and Louis thinks there’s a color on the Harry’s cheeks that just about gives him away.

Louis is on a bravery kick, still riding the high of his little _seize the moment_ incident earlier that afternoon, so he says, “Just a walk?” and there’s a lilt in his voice that he doesn’t think he’s ever used before, his eyebrows are playfully raised. He wonders if Harry can see that in the moonlight. Wonders if Harry cares that they’re in the moonlight at all.

And then there’s the faintest sound of Harry sucking in air, and Louis lets himself think that, yeah, maybe he does care after all.

He’s not expecting the following admission.

“There’s just a lot of us in that van now,” Harry says softly, the sort of whisper that has more than one function. The hair on the back of Louis’ neck prickles despite the heat.

He crosses his arms in mock-defiance. “And whose fault is that?” Louis asks, suddenly hyper aware of Liam and Zayn’s casual conversation just behind them.

Harry chuckles and has the good grace to sound mildly embarrassed when he says, “Who? _Me?”_

Louis looks at Harry and Harry looks at Louis and then they both look up at the sky.

And then Louis finally says, “So. About that walk?”

At that, Harry spins around to face Liam and Zayn, running a hand quickly through his hair. “We’re, um,” he announces fumblingly, “we’re gonna go yelling for water.” He hikes a thumb towards Louis.

Zayn considers them carefully, clearly unimpressed. “Yelling for water?” he asks slowly, as if speaking to a small child.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, and the look on his face is just so forcibly earnest that Louis has to turn away to hide his grin. “Like…you walk around with sticks and yell and you, like…find water.” He looks back and forth between Zayn and Liam, nodding his head as if stuck on loop, and Louis can’t help but laugh now because what’s even the point of this?

Liam blinks blankly from where he’s sat cross legged on the ground, obviously lost. Zayn sighs good naturedly and squats to sit down next to him. “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Zayn informs Liam. “And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t either.” He looks innocently back up at Louis and Harry. “But I _am_ pretty sure that he just wants some _alone time_ with Lou, so we should probably just leave them to it.”

Louis watches in real-time as the implications of this dawn on Liam. “Oh— _oh!”_ he frowns for a split second before his eyes go wide. “That’s— that’s alright!” he says quickly. “Go on ahead!”

“Thanks, Liam,” Louis rolls his eyes. “Sounds good.” He’s just about to turn to go, chalk that one up to about as good of a reaction as one could expect from a reverend’s boy, but suddenly there are fingers lacing through his own.

“Yelling for water is very important” Harry says solemnly, swinging their joined hands back and forth. “I saw it in a movie once. Always wanted to try it. We’ll holler if we find any for you, Zaynie.”

As they turn to go, Louis can just barely hear Zayn calling lazily after them— _“Yeah, I bet you saw it in a movie!”—_ because there’s blood rushing to his ears, all on account of a hand just slightly bigger than his own holding him tight, pulling him along.

✘✘✘✘

There’s nowhere really to walk that doesn’t keep Zayn and Liam in sight, and it’s dark, really fucking dark, so ‘going for a walk’ turns into settling for two hundred yards behind the far side of the Garbage Truck and calling it good enough.

Or. Well. Maybe it’s a little presumptuous of Louis to assume they’d even _need_ a more reliable source of privacy, but Harry’s still got his hand in Louis’, and they’re walking all close together— like, close enough that he could wrap an arm around Harry’s waist if he wanted too, and, _shit,_ does he want to, so— he does. And if that just isn’t the most incredible feeling, then he doesn’t know what is.

Apparently Harry doesn’t really need to stretch his legs as badly as he’d claimed; they end up sitting on the grass side by side, and Louis keeps his arm around Harry’s waist and decides that this has been the single most ludicrous day of his life thus far.

Harry is warm and soft where he’s pressed up next to him; a different sort of warm than the heat and humidity of the July air. A different sort of soft than the grass beneath their legs. They sit quietly for a few minutes, and it’s like so many thoughts are racing through Louis’ head that it all sort of morphs into radio silence, just a steady stream of static that leaves him completely unsure of what to do next. So he stares up at the sky, and thinks about how Harry said that the stars are just like the ones back home, yet so very, very different, and he thinks about how for the first time in his life he feels like he could say anything at all that comes to his mind and no one would question it or laugh at him or make him wish he were somewhere else.

“When did you realize that you like boys?” Harry asks suddenly.

Louis wrinkles his nose, and his fingers flex against the cotton of Harry’s shirt. “More like when didn’t I.” Dozens of memories of Saturday mornings in elementary school spent paying more attention to Greg than Marsha on the Brady Brunch come to mind. “You?”

He doesn’t hesitate to ask, and maybe in the moment it doesn’t seem quite as momentous as it is, but the reality of the matter is that this is the first time he’s ever asked someone that question. The first time he’s ever even had somebody to ask.

Harry laughs quietly. “I was madly in love with my next door neighbor in middle school.”

Louis smiles sympathetically. “Been there…” he laughs as well, and it’s weird. It’s weird being able to say that.

"Does your family know?" Harry asks after a moment. He stares down at the grass before them.

Louis nods. "My mom does," he says. "I was— I'm beyond lucky to have her." It's a gargantuan understatement, one that's not even really possible to put into words.

Harry's mouth twists. It's not a frown, but not a smile either. "And your friends?" he asks.

"Oli and Stan?" He sighs, thinking back to Stan's awkward questioning Junior year— _"You're...gay... aren't you, dude?"—_  "Yeah. Yeah, they do."

"Really?" Harry sits up straight.

"I mean...yeah. But, like," he shakes his head. "It's sort of a...thing, I guess. We don't really, like, acknowledge it often, if that makes sense."

Harry's quiet a long time then. The moon casts both of their arms in pale white light.

“...does _your_ mom know?” Louis asks, and his fingers search for the hem of Harry's shirt, stopping just before they meet skin.

Harry doesn’t respond quickly. “No,” he finally says. “No, she doesn’t.”

Louis blinks because, truth be told, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but somehow in this moment, that wasn’t it. “Do you...want to tell her?” he asks carefully, because he knows how things are, and if Harry hasn’t said anything about this before, then there must not be anything good to say.

Harry doesn’t hesitate before he says, “No. It’s not a big deal to me really.”

Louis picks at the grass a little because that doesn’t seem quite right. Not with the Harry he knows. He remembers _the story_ Harry’d mentioned to Zayn and the conversation with Liam just from this morning, and it feels like there’s something missing here, but then Harry says, “I don’t really wanna talk about it anymore, if that’s okay?” and that’s that.

They’re quiet again for a long time, and the spell isn’t broken, but it might have been weakened, and Louis wishes he hadn’t said anything at all.

But then Harry lightly knocks against his shoulder, and when Louis looks down from the sky, Harry smiles, and he says, “I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?”

Louis swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

And they’ve kissed twice before now, and they’ve done a bit more, but this feels like the real first time somehow, like the actual, defining moment where Louis will be able to look back in future years and have every single second of this stand out, etched perfectly into his brain as he says, “There was this guy. His name was Harry, and he was the best person I’ve ever met.”

Harry leans in, and Louis’ still got an arm wrapped around his waist, so they’re chest to chest, faces tilted, breath mixing and mingling. When their lips finally touch, Louis sighs, like actually sighs, or maybe it’s a whimper, maybe it’s a whine; he’s not sure and he’s doesn’t care, because every kiss, every touch before this has been spontaneous and rushed, and this, _this_ is on a different plane of emotion.

They kiss slowly. Take their time to really figure it out. This isn’t Harry mashing his lips against Louis’ in back of the van an hour after meeting. This isn’t sleepy grinding with Zayn two feet away. This isn’t even that brave, adrenaline-filled kiss from earlier. This is soft and slow, and a lot wetter than Louis ever knew a kiss could be.

Harry winds his arms around Louis’ neck and pulls him even closer somehow, fingertips playing with the hem of Louis’ t-shirt and the sticky skin lying just below, and for a split second Louis finds himself thinking, is this the part where I stick in my tongue? Do I just go for it?

But Harry does the job for him, and Louis half-wonders if he’s thinking about all of this as well, or if he’s coaxing Louis’ mouth open just on instinct alone. If he just _knows_ how to move his tongue, if he just _knows_ the right moment to break away, to press a wet kiss against his jaw.

He doesn’t think so, but he can’t be sure. Either way, he forces himself to stop wondering and inhales deeply— or as deep as he can. Panting more like it— and just tries to meet Harry tit for tat.

The longer they kiss, the less he thinks, and the less he thinks, the more he starts to just _do._

It’s Louis that pushes Harry backwards, softly, slowly, slowly, _slowly._ It’s Louis that finds himself holding his weight up over the boy below him, finds himself leaning down and shakily pressing his face into Harry’s neck as he tests the waters, lowers himself down, lets his weight settle in a way it never has on another person’s body.

And then it’s Harry that wiggles and squirms, gets Louis’ mouth back on his like he _wants_ it and _needs_ it; it’s Harry that presses his hips upwards as he winds his hands through Louis’ hair. It’s Harry that sends that spiraling heat shooting down Louis’ spine.

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily against Louis’ lips.

“Alright?” Louis mumbles, face on fire as he pulls back away to press sloppy, wet kisses down Harry’s neck, licking up the taste of salt and sweat and boy.

He’s aching in his jeans, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it besides push back against Harry, against the feel of Harry’s cock on his hip, the feel of his breath stuttering in his ear.

They move together, just rubbing and grinding, until they both go from shaky to frantic, and Louis tries to make it last, but he doesn’t know how, can barely keep his eyes open as it is.

The heat in his spine just keeps building and building, and Harry’s right there in his ear, mumbling, “Lou— _fuck,_ I’m— I’m gonna—” and then it feels like it’s over before it’s even began.

It’s a long few seconds before he comes back to Earth, and he doesn’t think—- no— he _knows_ he’s never felt something like this before in his life. It takes all his strength and willpower not to just collapse onto Harry below him, but he manages. Flops down onto his back, heart still pounding, covered in a layer of sweat that has nothing to do with the heat in the air.

He feels like he can see the whole universe above him when he opens his eyes to the sky above, but he only blinks twice before he turns his face to the really beauty beside him. “Would it be weird to say thanks?” he asks, because he’s an idiot, and good things and perfect moments aren’t meant to last.

Harry grins at him with droopy, sex-shot eyes. “These are my only jeans you know,” he says.

Louis snorts and rolls over, curling his body around the boy beside him. “I’ll lend you a pair,” he promises.

They fall asleep like that, just two young boys and the hard Kansas ground.


	6. Chapter 6

**⩶**

**1431 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

The next morning doesn’t feel nearly as romantic.

When Louis wakes up, Harry seems to finally be asleep after a night of mutual tossing and turning. He’s all curled up in a ball, hair in his eyes, mouth hanging open; there’s even a little drool coming out of his mouth. It’s adorable, in Louis’ professional opinion.

The ache in Louis’ back? Not so much.

He sits up haltingly, wincing as he goes. The movement must jostle Harry, who sniffles and cracks open his eyes, blinking blearily in the morning sun.

With what must be much effort, Harry mumbles, “Last night was great,” and rolls over to flop onto his stomach. “But never again.” His face wedges down into his arms, but he lifts it back up again to quickly add, “sleeping outside, I mean. The other part was—” his face flops back down, “I’d be down for that again.”

“Ditto,” Louis mutters and rubs his eyes, bringing his knees up to chest. “Fuck.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s probably a part of him more concerned that he had his first hook up last night. “We should probably make sure a coyote didn’t eat Liam or Zayn during the night…”

Harry moans in response and shows no sign of movement, but Louis’ used to this by now. And that’s sort of a pleasant feeling. Knowing someone enough to know how crabby they are in the morning and that they need coffee first thing. Knowing how they scrunch their face when they sleep.

Knowing how they sound when they come.

 _Ah,_ there it is. Last night’s euphoria finally pulling through.

Louis smirks and stands up, a sudden pep in his step.

✘✘✘✘

“You _fuckers.”_

Standing in the open doorway of the Garbage Truck, Louis feels a sense of envy and rage most likely far beyond the scope of the situation.

There, peacefully sleeping, lay Liam and Zayn, sprawled out on the shag floor of the van with what Louis can only assume is a solid six hours of restful, _painless_ sleep under their belts.

Well, they _were_ peacefully sleeping; now they’re sort of blinking awake like a pair of disgruntled kittens, right down to the bed head and sleepy stretching. Zayn sits up halfway, disentangling his ankle from Liam’s, the only parts of their bodies touching.

It’s cuter than Louis would like to admit.

“What?” Zayn grunts.

Louis frowns. “What happened to sleeping beneath the stars?” he demands.

Liam promptly rolls over, and Zayn clucks in annoyance. “You two went off to fuck, or whatever—”

“We didn’t _fuck—”_

“—and you never came back, so Liam and I decided to sleep here obviously.” He sits up all the way, already reaching for his morning smoke. “‘Sides,” he adds, pulling his lighter from the pocket of his jeans, “you two were the ones that wanted to sleep outside. Not us.”

“You said you like to feel the Earth when you sleep!”

Zayn smirks and lights the cigarette. “I lied.”

Louis is so completely and utterly not surprised. “You’re on first shift driving, asshole,” he says then, because Zayn technically didn’t do anything wrong, but it sure feels like it.

“Liam can do it.” Zayn taps at Liam’s hip with his knee. “He likes to drive.”

Louis hopes that the look he levels Zayn with communicates what he’s thinking: how the hell do you know that Liam likes _anything_ if he said a grand total of ten sentences yesterday?

It must work because over the tip of his cigarette, Zayn smiles dreamily and says, “He told me so last night,” which would seem like a normal explanation, but the light in Zayn’s eyes and the softness of his voice say otherwise. Louis stares at him and Zayn stares right back, but apparently their silent communication doesn’t work both ways because Louis has no fucking idea what’s going on in Zayn’s brain right now— not that he ever does.

“Alright then,” Louis says after a moment. “I’ll just kick Harry awake and we can be off.”

✘✘✘✘

It’s not long before Liam’s yawning and settling into the driver’s seat, Zayn taking up the front with him, and Louis is forced to acknowledge an obvious pro to a van full of people: a quarter of the time driving. (A third really, seeing as Harry is a dick.)

When Louis stretches out in the back, Harry stumbles in after him like a zombie, only to collapse down, using Louis’ belly as a pillow. He’s apparently determined not to wake up as a protest to the lack of coffee, and while Zayn claims this is a veritable sign of addiction and withdrawal, Louis just tangles a hand in Harry’s hair and kicks at the back of Zayn’s seat.

He leans down and whispers, “Change your jeans, mister,” into Harry’s ear, and it really should be too early for laughter, but he can’t help it when Harry cracks an eye up and frowns— _fuck_ , he just looks so much like a grumpy little frog— and it looks like it costs Harry a lot of effort to shuck off his ruined jeans, but he does it all the same; peels them off and wiggles into the cut offs Louis blindly hands him, looking the opposite direction, because if it’s too early for laughter, it’s _certainly_ too early for hard ons.

It seems like only seconds later that Harry’s out for the count, snoring lightly, and the heaviness in Louis’ eyes must mean he’s about halfway there as well.

“So...uh, where’m I going, then?” Liam asks as they pull out onto the dirt road, headed back towards the highway.

Louis waves a hand dismissively. “Just keep going straight.”

“Right or left?” Liam presses, adjusting his mirrors dutifully.

“Left,” Louis says with confidence, and then promptly falls asleep.

✘✘✘✘

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up, but the sun is brighter and the air feels hotter and his back doesn’t hurt quite so much, so the fact that it’s Zayn’s voice that’s the culprit isn’t nearly as irritating as it has the potential to be.

Somewhere in the recesses of his sleep-addled brain, Louis has a vague recollection of waking up halfway in order to take a hit of a joint and eat a corndog someone’d shoved into his hands during a gas station food break, but it’d been right back to sleep again, pressed up next to Harry just about as tight as one could in hundred degree weather. The sweat and stickiness was worth it, without a doubt.

“Look!” Louis hears Liam say loudly. Harry’s chest rises and falls under Louis’ hand. “Look at that sign!”

“Sioux City,” Zayn reads obediently.

“Sioux City’s up in Iowa,” Liam says, an obvious note of distress coloring his voice. “We’re not supposed to be goin’ to Iowa, are we? That’s...Iowa’s up north! We’re supposed to be goin’ west, aren’t we?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything then, and Louis is still half asleep, but shit, does he hope he’s misinterpreting what’s being said right now because—

Zayn’s voice is quiet and slow when he repeats, “Iowa’s up north isn’t it…”

Without opening his eyes, Louis says, “What the fuck is going on?”

Silence from the front.

And then Liam’s voice, nervous and high: “Um?”

✘✘✘✘

So, it looks like they should’ve gone right, right from the start. The start being six and a half hours ago. And that’s definitely Louis’ bad. Sure. Of course.

But _how?_ How the fuck did neither Liam nor Zayn not realize at any point within that six hour period that maybe they were, you know, going the completely fucking wrong direction?

“You’re sure we’re on I-29 right now?” Harry asks for probably the millionth time. He’s sitting in the edge of the doorway, hunched over the map, and Louis fundamentally knows that this is not an opportune time to wax poetic about knees and curls, but Harry’s got his hair pulled back in a stupid little bun on top of his head and Louis’ very own pair of denim shorts on his legs; they’re short and frayed and ridiculous, and he makes a vow to himself right then and there to never ask for them back.

“I can’t fucking believe you two,” Louis says to Liam and Zayn then, if only as a way to distract himself.

Liam sort of looks like he’s seen a ghost or has been told it’s time to go to a funeral, but Zayn doesn’t ever really seem to regard Louis with the sort of empathy he has repeatedly demonstrated towards everyone else, so he just shrugs and smiles in a vaguely apologetic way before saying, “At least we didn’t make it all the way to Canada.”

“How the hell are we on I-29 right now?” Harry says, mostly to himself. “Like. I’m literally staring at this map, and I have no idea how the fuck we’ve ended up where we are. We were on I-70 headed towards Denver this morning…” He looks up then with big, doey eyes. “I fall asleep for _one day_ ,” he shakes his head. “Honestly…”

Louis raises his palms as a sign of ignorance and refuses to confirm or deny his involvement.

“So… now what?” Liam asks, and Louis wonders if they’re at the point where “now what?” is just the go-to question for this trip.

“What time is it?” Louis points at Harry’s watch.

Harry checks his wrist and shakes his head. “Almost six.” So that’s a day lost then. Louis sighs and pats himself on the back for the forethought to give himself an extra day or two to get there in time.

“Dinner?” Harry ventures, and it’s probably not too late to just turn around and go back the way they came, but from an _emotional_ standpoint, it most definitely is.

Louis frowns, thinking. “So, who here is under 19?” Liam and Harry raise their hands. Louis puts his hands on his hips decidedly.

“Well. We better find a bar that’ll serve you babies, too.”

✘✘✘✘

They drive in a random direction in silence. There are no words to express the feeling of loss and grief one experiences upon driving six and a half hours in the wrong direction. Harry takes the wheel this time, too, which definitely highlights the weight of the situation.

“I’m sorry,” Liam says for the thousandth time.

“It’s okay,” Louis assures him for the thousand and first, because there’s really not much to be done for it besides get drunk in a bar, or a cornfield if worst comes to worst.

Luckily, such desperate measures aren’t needed; it’s not long before the side road Harry’d pulled off on weaves its way into a town too small to have more than one high school.

“Just like Brunswick,” Louis comments, peering out the window at the little houses and driveways pushed up into neat little rows on each street.

A quick lap of the ‘city’ center reveals there to only be two bars, very creatively labeled Moe’s and O’Brian’s, so after a quick poll regarding the quality of the establishments resulting in a general consensus of “I don’t fucking know,” and “I don’t fucking care,” Harry pulls up front of the neon-sign littered window of Moe’s.

“Think they’ll serve us here?” Harry asks, letting the driver’s side door slam shut behind him. “I turn nineteen in February.”

Shuffling behind as they make their way to the door, Liam quietly says, “Well, I don’t really drink much, so—”

“No,” Louis cuts him off firmly without looking back. “Nope. Don’t even finish that thought.”

Zayn is a little kinder, waiting back a bit for Liam to catch up. “You don’t drink?”

“‘Course, I do,” Liam says quickly, and Louis chances a glance back as he holds the heavy wooden door open for Harry, catches a glimpse of uncertainty dart across Liam’s face. “Just...not much.”

“That’s okay,” Zayn reassures him.

Louis makes a sour face. “No, it’s not. Lima—” Harry chuckles at the nickname “—we’re all gonna have a good time tonight. Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.” Liam doesn’t look convinced. “It’ll be an experience, right? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

“Well—” Liam begins, probably about to point out that he’d never actually _said_ that, but Harry cuts him off with a sunny smile.

“Just a little, okay? No worries, man.”

✘✘✘✘

_“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk_

_I'm a woman's man: no time to talk—”_

The inside of Moe’s looks like shit and boasts a single, rotating disco ball.

“No,” Louis says firmly. “No way.”

Liam and Zayn look around with similar concern, but Harry just whistles when he walks in. “Ni- _ice,”_ he grins appreciatively.

Louis stares at him. “You’re kidding right?”

 _“Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother_ _  
_ _You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive”_

“Oh, come on!” Harry chuckles at the look of pure disdain Louis has purposefully constructed. “It’s _fun!”_

Fun is not the word Louis would use to describe a half-empty wanna-be disco bar in rural Iowa; however, a bar is a bar, and booze is booze, so Louis just shakes his head and turns to Liam. “Ready for a drink?” he gestures at the bar.

Liam grimaces. “I’m alri—”

“Nice,” Louis slams his palm against the grainy wood of a nearby table. “Shots it is.” Liam’s eyes widen. “Zayn. Harry. You in?”

And of course they’re in, that was a stupid question. It’s only moments later that they’ve each got a small shooter in their hand full of murky brown liquid— a very fine selection of _whatever’s cheapes_ t. Harry’s still bopping back and forth to the Bee Gees, but Liam definitely looks green around the gills. Something twinges in Louis’ conscious because this is meant to be stupid fun, and he has a feeling they’re supposed to be _educating_ Liam, not, like, traumatizing him.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Lima. We were just joking around, man.”

Liam bites his lip and stares down at the shot. “Nah, I’m good,” he says, looking anything but. Louis’ frown deepens.

“Nope,” he says, pulling the shot from between Liam’s fingers. “Mine now.”

It’s Zayn to the rescue once again because although Louis has good intentions, that doesn’t mean he knows how to properly execute them. He plucks the shot back out of Louis’ hand and holds it out to Liam. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but don’t like— don’t listen to Louis. Do it because _you_ want to.” He smiles sweetly. “It’ll be fun, man. But only if you want to.”

Harry winks and raises his glass high, expectant. “To California,” he announces. Louis and Zayn raise theirs as well.

Liam hesitates just a moment longer, and then, “To California,” he affirms bravely. “Just— y’all can’t let me die.”

They throw their shots back in unison, and Liam splutters— well, they all splutter, but everyone else does a better job of hiding it— and then Earth, Wind, and Fire comes on in the background, so Harry, of course, continues dancing all by himself. Zayn just smiles, and Liam stands stock still as if he might be seconds from puking, shot glass still in hand.

 _“_ _Do you remember the_ _”_ Harry sings in a terrible falsetto. “ _the_ _21st night of September?_ _”_ His hands roll in little circles around each other as he shimmies back and forth with the biggest, dumbest grin on his face. _“_ _Love was changing the minds of pretenders, while chasing the clouds away..._ _”_

Louis leans against the table, arms crossed, eyebrow arched and when he looks Harry up and down— too small cut offs, still in the Pink Floyd shirt from yesterday— he hopes it reads as judgemental rather than hopelessly endeared.

Harry grins, and Louis knows that it doesn’t.

So, instead, he looks up at the cheap, spinning disco ball, and then down at the sticky wood floor, and all around at a mostly empty bar in which absolutely _no else is dancing,_ and then his eyes are back on Harry, singing and swaying, and probably only halfway joking, at most. Louis’ stomach feels hot and tight, and, God, does he hate disco, but this— Harry laughs and shimmies even more dramatically— this is really something else.

 _“Oo ay oo! Say do you remember?”_ Harry strikes a pose, hands raised high, when the chorus hits its peak, and then he just sort of stands there, waving his arms around like a very attractive tree. _“Oo ay oo! Dancin’ in September!”_

Louis takes a deep breath and turns to face Liam instead. “So how was it?” he asks, nodding at the empty shot glass Liam’s still clutching.

Liam hesitates for a few seconds, but his nervous expression slowly but surely turns into a tentative smile. “Not so bad,” he admits.

Louis grins. “Ready for another?”

✘✘✘✘

One shot turns into two, which turns into a beer each and a few shots more, and they don’t let Liam die, but it’s probably a close-ish call.

“No, no, no, _no,”_ Liam says forcefully, shaking his head back and forth. Four empty shot glasses and a half full glass of Budweiser sit spread in front of him.“Y’all just ain’t _listenin'_  to me.”

“He wasn’t lying, I guess” Harry leans in to whisper in Louis’ ear. _“Really_ doesn’t take much, does it?”

His breath is fruity and sweet, and his cheeks are a glowing pink, so Louis smiles and teases, “As if you’re any better,” reveling in the warmth  of his own buzz.

They’re all standing around a dirty high-top table, and some terrible, _terrible_ disco song is blasting over the speakers. They’re drunk and about 300 miles from where they should be, but Harry’s right there, pressed up against Louis’ side. He giggles into Louis’ neck when Liam goes to reach for his beer and sends his little collection of shot glasses rolling instead, so it’s okay, Louis thinks. This is very okay.

“Alright, Lima?” he nods, chuckling as Liam scrambles to right all of the glasses. Zayn takes pity on him and gathers them into a little line a safe distance away from Liam’s clumsy hands.

 _“No!”_ Liam says, anguished. “Because y’all ain’t _listenin'_ to me!”

“We’re listening!” Harry promises, taking a long pull of his orange and vodka. “We’re listening, Liam!”

“Y’all—” he burps slightly, “saved my life! And y’all— y’all are my best friends,” Liam declares, eyes suddenly watering. “I just love you so dang much,” he adds, because it’s apparently already that time of the night.

“Oh, God...” Louis groans, as if he hasn’t had his very own moments of quiet existentiality on this trip. Harry pinches him on the hip.

Zayn pats Liam’s arm reassuringly. “It’s okay, Liam. We’re glad to have you, too” he tells him.

Liam doesn’t actually cry, but he definitely looks like he’s on the verge of it, which is an interesting addition to the Diana Ross song currently spinning in the background. “I thought I was gonna die in that town,” he says mournfully. “Or at least lose my dang mind.” He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s all but fitting himself into Zayn’s side as he speaks, reaching for his beer with one hand and scrubbing his face roughly with the other.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Zayn asks kindly.

Liam takes a long gulp of beer, waits a few moments, and then shakes his head. “I wanna…” he says slowly, face screwed up in concentration as he thinks, “I want someone to teach me how to dance.”

Harry’s face, of course, lights up at the offer. “Me!” he raises his hand in the air, waving it back and forth as if he has any competition. “Me! Me! Let’s go!” He grabs at Liam’s hand and tugs him away from Zayn and onto the now _barely_ crowded dance floor before anyone can say another word.

Louis tenses and eighteen years of a panic so ingrained, so habitual, slams over him.

He makes eye contact with Zayn, and for all Zayn’s calm and zen, he sees what he imagines is the very same worry mirrored on his face. “Maybe...maybe we should go out there too,” Zayn says carefully. “We can all dance in a group, so you know… it doesn’t look...like they’re...” The implication of his words— _together—_ goes unsaid, and if Zayn is concerned, there’s concern to be had, Louis thinks.

Fortunately, Liam seems to be quite a bit more hesitant out on the dance floor. While Harry is all arms and hips, Liam stands awkwardly in place, just sort of shuffling back and forth. Harry tries to grab for one of his hands, and Liam takes a step back, like he’s just now realized what he’s gotten himself into.

“I don’t mean to be rude, now, Harry,” Louis hears over the music as they approach, “and it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, or nothin’. I— I really do. But I, uh...I wish my girlfriend was here,” Liam says in what he probably thinks is a firm voice, though it comes off more as nervous.  “If you know what I mean.”

Zayn stops in his tracks, blinking.

Oh, Zayn, Louis thinks. You poor, poor bastard. “Anyone down for another round?” he asks in an effort to diffuse every aspect of this situation.

Liam grins at the offer, and it’s questionable whether it’s because he’s overcome his fear of liquor or because he sees it as an easy exit, but all the same, Louis jerks his heads towards the bar. “Ever had tequila?” he asks, and leaves Harry to deal with a stock-still Zayn.

One tequila shot each later, Louis broaches the topic with much tact. “So. A girlfriend?” he blurts out.

Liam startles, eyes wide. “I have one!” he quickly confirms.

Louis frowns. “And you left her behind?”

“Well...” Liam mumbles, clearly not listening anymore as he squints off into the distance with unfocused eyes. “I gotta take a leak. Where’s the bathroom?”

Louis nods in agreement and tries to make a mental note to bring this back up again later, feeling warm and fuzz and definitely at the point in the night right before all his liquor will undoubtedly hit him. They toddle off together in search of the men’s room, Liam’s increasingly unsteady feet only impeding the process a little.

The bathroom tucked in the back corner of the room is small, just a single stall and a urinal. Louis pushes the door open with too much force, and for a second they both stand in the bright light, blinking painfully before Liam stumbles into the stall.

Louis watches curiously as his reflection makes silly faces back at him in the mirror— grinning, pouting, wide-eyed, narrow-eyed— and he’s only half-listening as Liam starts rattling off a list of numbers, too preoccupied with wondering where Harry is and what he’s doing and if he’s still dancing by himself and if he’d like another drink. Louis thinks he’d really like to buy Harry another drink.

“7...1...2…9...4...4...8”

“What the fuck?” Louis finally says.

“712-9448. For a good time call.” Silence. And then, “ _I_ wanna have a good time!”

“Is that written on the wall?” Louis asks, inching over to the stall.

“Let’s call!”

“We can’t call a random number, Liam!”

The stall door swings open, smacking Louis straight in the chest; Liam seems not to notice. “C’mon!” he says with more enthusiasm than Louis has seen of him yet. “Let’s call it!” Liam’s eyes are red and bleary, and his goofy smile says _please, please, please._ “I wanna have a good time! Don’t you, Lou?”

“Hey!” Louis frowns. “Only Harry can call me Lou.”

Liam’s eyes widen then, as if suddenly remembering something very important. “That’s right!” he points at Louis. “I was thinkin’ earlier about askin’ you—” He tilts his head to the side and then asks with utter sincerity, “What’s it like to be a homosexual?”

“Um,” Louis says.

“I asked my girlfriend once, but obviously she don’t know, but I mean, I figured, you know, who better to ask than someone who also likes— you know,” he wiggles his hips as if this is a normal conversation to have and the bathroom stall of a random bar is a normal place to have it.

Louis is drunk, but not drunk enough for this. “Hey, weren’t we gonna call that number or whatever?”

Liam gasps audibly. “That’s right!” He turns on his heel and looks back at the graffitied inside of the stall. “712-9448,” he recites.

“You remember the 712, and I’ll remember the 9448,” Louis instructs. “Let’s go.”

They make a quick exit in search of a pay phone, even going as far as asking the bartender where the closest one is, and the more he thinks about it, the more excited Louis gets.

They sweep past the table where Harry and Zayn are seated again, beers in hand. Harry raises an eyebrow as they pass. Louis blows him a mental kiss  “We’ll be back,” he promises because he doesn’t want Harry to worry.

Luckily, there’s a phone right outside the door, and a dime later, he and Liam stand giggling, faces pressed closed together as they hold the receiver up between their ears to listen.

Three rings in, a raspy voice picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi!” Louis and Liam chime in unison. Louis kicks Liam in the shin to make him shut up. “We’re calling for a good time,” he says dutifully.

Static fills the line for just a beat, but then there’s a chuckle. “You at Moe’s?” the voice asks.

“We wanna have a good time!” Liam repeats to the voice excitedly.

There’s some sniffling then and maybe a yawn. “Alright,” the voice finally agrees. “Why not? Meet me out front in ten.” The call disconnects, and Liam collapses into Louis’ shoulder in a fit of laughter.

“We invited our friend,” Louis announces smugly when they make their way back inside and over to Harry and Zayn. “He says he’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Your friend?” Harry asks incredulously. “What the fuck?”

Liam settles back into his perpetual spot at Zayn’s side. “His number was on the bathroom wall!” And then, decidedly: “I need another beer.” He turns to face Zayn face-on. “Zayn, I need another beer.”

“You’re gonna be so sick tomorrow,” Zayn shakes his head, but he leads him over to the bar all the same.

Harry turns to Louis, pouting. “I thought _I_ was your friend,” he says.

Louis beams. _“Best_ friend,” he corrects him firmly. “Wait with me outside, best friend?”

✘✘✘✘

It is, Louis subsequently realizes, harder than one would think to wait outside, alone in the dark, alone in the summer heat, with someone you really just want to bone but are circumstantially unable to.

And that was _before_ Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him into the dark alley next to the bar.

 _“Harry,”_ he laughs, squirming away for the umpteenth time as a cuddly Harry repeatedly tries to pull him in close by the hips, tries to stick his face right in Louis’ neck. “Harry, our new friend is coming!”

 _“I_ want to be coming,” Harry says right into his ear, and Louis _really_ forces himself to move away then as an act of sheer self-preservation.

“You’re going to kill me,” Louis informs him, but he grins wide to make sure Harry understand that he wants it, he wants this, and he wants him. _Later_ , he hopes Harry understands, unable to bring himself to say it.

They spread themselves apart then, and the twisting, groovy runs of that one Michael Jackson song everyone keeps playing flow out from inside.

 _“Keep on with the force don't stop,”_ Harry sings cheekily, looking Louis straight eye.

 _“Don't stop 'til you get enough,”_ Louis agrees.

“At least you like Michael,” Harry says. “See? Not all disco is bad.”

“I’ve always been more of a Jermaine fan,” Louis smirks, taking Harry by the hand again and leading them back out of the alley and into the light, if only to avoid temptation.

Harry gasps dramatically. _“Jermaine?_ Over _Michael?”_ He thumps back against the wall besides Louis. “I don’t think I can be with someone that ignorant.”

Louis’ brain short-circuits. “Be with?” he questions with a confidence that surely comes from the alcohol alone.

Before Harry can respond, a figure yells out, “Hey! You the dude that called?” and a short, blonde boy comes into focus beneath the streetlights.

Be with. Be. With? Be _with?_

“He did,” Harry responds for Louis, nudging him with his shoulder.

The boy comes to a stop in front of them. “Niall,” he says confidently, hand outstretched.

Louis’ mind is still on another planet, so after a moment Harry fills in for him, “This is Louis, and I’m Harry. He and our other friend called you.”

Louis’ forces his mouth to move. “For a good time,” he confirms.

Niall glances at the building with evident disdain. “Then why the fuck are we still at Moe’s?” he says. “Bunch of fuckin’ hicks who think disco’s fancy or something, fuck if I know.” He pauses and considers them for a moment. “You’re from out of town, right?”

Louis and Harry nod in unison.

“Well, go get your friend, dude. Let’s fuckin’ _go!”_

✘✘✘✘✘

 _Go_ apparently means go to O’Brian’s next door, and that’s where they find themselves shortly after coercing an increasingly belligerent Liam out of Moe’s. The lay-out is essentially the same, and the booze is _definitely_ the same, so all O’Brian’s really has going for it is the music and a crowd, but that alone is enough to sell it for Louis.

And a crowd there is— Louis feels foolish for having let the bar’s notable lack of neon signs lead him towards Moe’s before. True, it’s a little later on in the evening, so maybe that’s all there is to blame, but O’Brian’s is definitely much, much more than half-full.

“Only good place in this town,” Niall shout-explains as he shoulders his way into the masses, presumably on his way to the bar. “Only good place for about three towns on either side,” he adds.

Other than that, they don’t get too much out of their new friend other than a round of shots and a beer a piece; the music’s too loud, the party’s too good, everyone’s too drunk, and Niall’s too busy giving everyone in the vicinity a hug or a handshake— and then promptly telling them to go to hell.

A song or two later, and a staggering six consecutive shots of his own down the drain, Niall suddenly asks, “Wait— what’re your names again?”

Louis smiles sweetly and sets down his empty glass. “I’m Lucas,” he jabs a finger directly in the center of his chest. “And this is Harvey,” he waves grandiosely at Harry. “Zach and Leo are around here somewhere.” Louis leans into Harry’s ear conspiratorily and says, “They’re in love, by the way. Don’t tell Niall. Or Leo.”

Niall’s voice manages to tear him away from the soft hair that brushes Harry’s ear. “And why the fuck are y’all in Lawton?” he asks, taking a deep swig from his beer bottle. Before Louis can reply, Niall’s already distracted, raising his drink high in the air and shouting across the bar, _“Hey!_ Conway, you lazy fucker, _come over here,”_ before storming away in a cloud of laughter and curses.

Louis is drunk, but his one track mind apparently isn’t, what with that way he immediately opens his big, fat mouth to demand clarification on the whole _“Be WITH?”_ dilemma; however, right as he turns to confront Harvey/Harry, Leo/Liam comes barreling into his side.

“This is a good song!” Liam declares, gripping tightly onto Louis’ shirt as he rights himself. Zayn wanders over belatedly. “The best song!” Liam adds. “I’ve never known too many songs before, or nothin’” he says. “And now I know the best song. And that’s all thanks to _you,_ Lou.”

“Only Harry can call me Lou!” Louis says waspishly, just as the words, _“Can anybody find me....somebody to love?”_ hit his ears, temporarily rendering Louis speechless.

His body freezes, his eyes go wide, and then, “It’s _him!”_ he whispers, automatically turning in search of Harry. “Harry, it’s him!” Harry laughs in agreement and sways dramatically to the loose, loping piano backing of Freddie Mercury and Queen, and it’s all Louis can do to keep from launching himself into his arms.

 _“ Can anybody find me?”_ Liam yells, looking truly delighted. _“Somebody? To love!”_

It takes a full run through of the chorus for Louis to understand what’s going on.

“Liam,” he stops him abruptly, waving his hands. “Liam— what the— what the fuck? What are you singing?”

Liam bellows with complete confidence: _“Can anybody find me? Somebody? To love!”_ He pauses, looks at the group before him and says earnestly, “I don’t wanna be found, though. Just so y'all know. I just like the song, but I don’t wanna be found by no one.”

Louis looks to Harry, affronted, and Harry raises his hands in defeat.

“Liam, you moron! You— _you’re not the one being found!_ The song’s asking for someone to find you somebody so that you can love them! What the fuck?” Louis demands. _“Can anybody find me somebody to love?_ It’s one complete sentence, you idiot!” He turns to Harry again, still outraged. “I barely graduated high school, and I know that!”

Liam blinks and then frowns, apparently listening closely. “I’ll wait for the next chorus,” he decides. “Then we’ll see.”

“There’s nothing to see!” Louis protests, but then Harry effectively settles the discussion by attempting his best Freddie impression. It’s terrible, absolutely terrible, but Louis grins anyways, sufficiently distracted.

“I think I might cry when we actually see them,” he finds himself saying, and it doesn’t feel like as much of an admission as it should. Not with Harry. “He—” Louis hiccups. “He was the first, you know? Like— the first person that's...or that I'm pretty is... _you know..._ that I’d ever— I’d ever really _known.”_ He takes a step back and looks up at Harry with wide, blurry eyes, and there, beneath the beer and the music, he suddenly becomes aware that he has to tilt his head up when he speaks to Harry. They’re sitting in the van so much of the time, he must never have noticed that Harry is taller than him, or, like— _really_ noticed.

He notices now. He really, really notices as Freddie Mercury sings about love and shit in the background. It’d be hard not to notice, Louis reasons.

 

“I don’t even know him, I know,” he whispers. “It doesn’t make sense, but...” His mouth closes, and it’s the beer that has tears pricking at his eyes, that’s all.

Harry nods at his silence, and his face is soft beneath a very understanding smile. “Yeah,” he says, voice clipped. “That’s— that makes total sense, actually.”

Louis smiles and wipes his eyes a little— it’s the _beer,_ damn it— and thinks that he might actually collapse under the weight of that _yeah._

“Yeah,” he repeats, and Harry nods.

They don’t say anything else, but Harry pulls him in, just for a second, and that second-long hug is _another_ one of those things— fuck, Harry’s full of them— that Louis doesn’t think he’ll forget for a very, very long time.

✘✘✘✘✘

He loses track of time, but at some point Niall must wave them back over to the bar and buy them another round of beers. He’s a nice guy, Louis thinks. He’s not sure why— they’ve exchanged all of a hundred words and about half of them have been _fuck_ — but Louis likes to think he has good intuition, so.

“Why was your number on the bathroom wall?” Harry asks Niall, shouting to be heard over the music, and Niall cackles.

“My ex-girlfriend,” he says like that explains it. “Everyone in this shit-hole knows that story, though, so no one really wastes the money just to annoy me or whatever. You goons are the first to do it,” he tells them fondly, as if this is something to be proud of. And it is, Louis thinks to himself, beaming.

Another song starts up then, and the bar’s _really_ crowded now— _really_ crowded for a Monday, or a Tuesday, or a Wednesday— fuck— Louis doesn’t know what day it even is— and a mixture of cheers and shouts and jeering flies up through the dance floor.

Louis steadies himself against Harry’s very solid, very warm arm and frowns, trying to place the song.

And then the riff really kicks in, and it’s like every drop of alcohol left in his system hits Louis at once, because when you’re in a bar full of people, be it Iowa or Maine or anywhere in the world, and ‘More Than A Feeling’ comes on— you _sing_.

He swivels towards Harry, and they both start just lose it. Harry’s got his glass raised high, hair tossing back and forth to the beat, and his cheeks surely must _hurt_ with a grin that big— so big that Louis’ gets sucked into it, gets lost in it.

Harry grabs him by the hand and pulls them deeper into the crowd, and Louis says, “I don’t know how to dance,” because it’s the sad, sad truth and if there was ever a moment in his life in which he was meant to dance, he thinks, it’s right here, right now, with Harry, this bar full of people, and the leader sing of Boston.

Harry shrugs and beer sloshes down his wrist. He looks like the crazy sort of happy that Louis crazy sort of feels.

“Then just jump,” he says with a smile.

So they do.

He, Harry, and a hundred of their closest friends jump and shout along, and sometime during the second chorus, Niall slams into Harry, and Louis gets stuck in the line of fire. Both of their drinks drench him, just absolutely drench him, but he doesn’t even care because the chorus is soaring and everyone’s singing, and he’s the very best sort of drunk.

Harry wiggles closer and then they’re jumping _together,_ stomping together, singing together, and Harry’s hand keeps grabbing Louis’ wrist, pumping their fists up high.

 _“It’s more than a feeling!”_ Louis shouts along to the chorus, and he shouts it right at Harry, and Harry yells it right back, and it’s ridiculous, Louis thinks, but it’s ridiculous and it’s true.

Someone’s drink gets knocked sideways from up high overhead— in the blink of an eye they’re in a Jack and Coke rainstorm, and the spray adds to Louis’ already beer soaked shirt, and it slides, sticky and wet, down Harry’s arms. Harry shrieks first with the cold, and then he shrieks with laughter, and Louis’ shrieking because Harry’s shrieking, and then Harry’s stumbling in, so very, very close, and Louis isn’t shrieking anymore.

Niall’s on one side of them, punching the air, and Zayn and Liam are surely somewhere close by, doing whatever it is they do. Harry spins Louis around by the shoulder, voice cracking as he belts along to the song, _laughs_ along to the song, and he’s the most incredible person in the whole damn room, Louis thinks, as he just tries his best to hold on.

 _“It’s more than a feeling—”_ Harry shouts. His chest is inches from Louis’.

 _“More that feeling!”_ Louis echoes. His face is inches from Harry’s.

_“When they play that song, babe—” “—it’s more than a feeling!”_

Their voices overlap, and their breath overlaps, and if either of them wanted to, their mouths could overlap, closing the gap between them. Louis won’t, and Harry won’t, because he’s not stupid, and Harry’s not stupid, but the music is loud, the singing is loud, and everything about everything is _loud, loud—_

 

“Fuckin’ fags.”

 

It hits Louis like a truck.

It’s stupid, probably, but Louis’ first instinct is to grab Harry’s arm, nails digging into the soft skin of his forearm. The song slows for the bridge, fades almost into nothing. Harry stands frozen, eyes locked directly over Louis’ shoulder.

And then there’s laughter from behind them. Chuckling and snickering.  
  
Louis’ stomach clenches.  
  
He knows it’s coming from behind, but he doesn’t look. Doesn’t even breathe.

He thinks back to Liam and Harry’s dancing _—_ _“Maybe we should join them— so it doesn’t look…” _—_  _and his heart pounds, harsh and violent against his chest.

The world keeps spinning. The bridge starts building. The vocals keep ascending. The guitar starts strumming. 

Nobody speaks.

The song hits its climax, and the bar goes wild. The voices behind them start laughing again.

Louis stares at the floor.

 

And then Niall turns on the spot and decks the guy right on the downbeat of the guitar solo.

 

Louis whips around, slack jawed. Niall’s shoulders heave, and then he turns back to face them, flexing his fingers. "God, I hate this fucking town,” he says and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

Louis just stares, mouth still open, fingernails still dug deep into Harry’s arm.  
  
The song blasts on. Harry’s hands fly back up into the air. The offending man’s friends crouch down to check if he’s alright.  
  
Louis looks at Harry. And then he looks at Niall.  He looks at the man knocked out cold on the ground.  
  
There’s only one logical response to this.

Still shaking disbelief, he turns to Niall and asks, “So. How do you feel about California?”


	7. Chapter 7

**⩶**

**1467 (+283 Miles In the Wrong Direction) To Go**

**⩶**

Out of context, the sentence  _ Jermaine? Over Michael? I don’t think I can be with someone that ignorant _ should not have the same emotional hold over Louis as it does, but  _ Be With _ are the first words to pop into Louis’ mind the next morning, closely followed by  _ who the fuck is the guy sleeping on my legs? _ It’s hard to say which is more distressing. 

For a split second, it’s pure sensory overload: there’s a strange boy draped across him, the air is thick with the scent of BO and beer, and the only thing he can see behind hang-over clenched eyes is Harry slumped up against the wall, the words “Be With” tumbling out of his mouth on repeat.

The strange man drools directly onto Louis’ left thigh.

Louis sits up abruptly. 

“Uh—” The sound dies in his throat as a steady stream of half-formed memories swim before him. Beer. Dancing. Beer. So, so much beer. Stumbling into the van at last call.  _ Niall. _

Louis stares down in bewilderment as Niall wrinkles his nose in his sleep, a picture of perfect calmness. He shakes his left leg abruptly. “You punched that dude,” he says, voice hoarse. 

Niall squints awake. For a long second they both just stare at each other, blinking slow and heavy. 

“Lucas?” Niall finally says, voice lilting like he’s unsure whether it’s meant as a question or a fact. His eyes and nose are red, the perfect counterparts to his otherwise sickly, green complexion.

“...Louis?” Louis parrots back, matching Niall’s tone and apprehension.

Niall frowns and his squinting eyes turn almost to slits. “Think I met your friend Lucas last night,” he says. He then promptly rockets upwards, thwacking his head on the roof of the van in a misguided attempt at standing. “I’m gonna—” he mumbles behind the hand clutched flush to his mouth, and Louis springs into action, practically kneeing Harry in the neck— and Zayn in the groin— and Liam in the stomach— in his haste to throw the sliding door open.

“What the—” Harry groans, propping himself up on his elbows. Louis silently points out the door of the van where Niall is currently hunched over, hands on knees, spewing what can only be assumed to be the last five or so beers from previous night. 

Harry watches, expressionless, for a moment before snuffling and looking away without a word. He takes one look at the scene around him— people upon people surrounding him on all sides— and pushes Liam’s shoulder off his hip with a discontented grunt. Liam rolls right on back. “Liam!” he hisses, all frizzy curls and sleep-pink skin. “Fucking  _ move.” _

And Louis’ head hurts and his eyes feel sort of sticky and dry, but he snorts all the same when Harry makes direct eye contact and frowns— pouts— as if this were somehow all Louis’ fault. “Coffee?” he offers, because at least they’re in something that resembles a city this morning, and a stupid hangover doesn’t make him want to take care of Harry any less.

“Yes, please” Harry mutters, and Louis almost finds it in himself to beam because Harry doesn’t say please or thank you to  _ anyone _ in the morning. 

When the dulcet tones of puke on pavement seem to have at least temporarily halted, Louis takes the opportunity to call out, “Yo— you still in or what?” because many of the events of last night are a little bit blurry and a lot whole foggy, but if there’s one that certainly stands out, it’s that of their new friend/total stranger, Niall Last Name Unknown, wailing on some dude in honor of the two gay boys he’d known for all of an hour.

Still bent over and possibly on the verge of death, Niall lifts his face from the puddle at his feet. “...what?” he asks, confused.

“California,” Louis says. Zayn and Liam finally start to stir. “We’re going to a Queen concert. You in or you out? We’re gonna go look for something to eat, I think.”

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and they spent the night sleeping in a shitty van parked outside a bar in the middle of Iowa.

Niall wipes his mouth with his t-shirt and stands up. “Sure. Why the fuck not.”

And so there were five.

✘✘✘✘✘

The best part about picking up yet another stranger to join their little jamboree is finding one that is neither a vagabond nor a runway, Louis thinks. Niall Last Name Apparently Horan is miraculously the owner of a two bedroom apartment located above a corner store simply called Corner Store, and, according to Niall, if that isn’t the perfect description for Lawton, Iowa, he doesn’t know what is.

“My roommate, Bressie, is probably home,” he informs them as they summit the two-story walk up— a feat that Louis silently prays is only so difficult thanks to his stabbing hangover, rather than the recent steady increase in his smoke-related activities. “Or,” Niall kicks open his unlocked front door, “I guess it’s Tuesday morning, so he’s probably already at work. I don’t fuckin’ know. If he’s here just ignore him.”

Standing there in the center of what is possibly one of the smallest, ugliest living rooms he has ever seen, Louis feels as if he’s entered a certifiable oasis. “Bathroom’s the first door down. There’s not a lot of hot water, so don’t fuckin’ use it all,” Niall says, throwing himself face first on an orange and brown striped sofa. “Have at it.” 

With a vigor only a man without access to a real bath in the past six days could possess, Louis thinks to himself: these are the words of a God. 

Harry makes a break for it first, which is only somewhat disappointing. Louis plops down next to Niall’s feet and definitely doesn’t frown because he definitely hadn’t practiced (many) different variations of ‘hey, wanna save water?’ on the short drive over.

A few minutes pass in early morning silence before Niall belatedly asks, “...did he bring his coffee into the bathroom?” The words come out garbled from where his cheek is squashed into the cushion.

Louis smiles a little. “Don’t get between the man and his coffee,” he sighs. He turns then to where Liam is awkwardly hovering within arms length of both Zayn and the kitchen. “How you feel, Lima?”

Liam shrugs. “Fine,” he says, brightening slightly. His hair is about as mussed as it could be given its neat, trim length, and the bags under his eyes are the only real indicator that he’d had anything close to a rough night. Louis goes to glare in jealousy but quickly stops, wincing.

“You were a shit show last night!” he says accusingly.

“He was  _ not,” _ Zayn interjects, also looking unfairly unbothered. “Speak for yourself.” 

And that’s just  _ not true _ , so Louis turns to Niall for support. “Were you around when this kid nearly—” The bathroom door swings open, and Louis’ words cut off so quickly he coughs.

In a swirl of steam and yellowy-white bathroom light, Harry emerges from the doorway, one tiny towel wrapped low around his waist, the other coiled haphazardly around his head, and one cough turns into two turns into three, and Louis can’t stop coughing, might have actually choked on his own spit because—

There are no words. 

There are no words to convey how completely blank Louis’ mind goes in that moment.

Legs. Chest. Arms. Thighs. 

No adjectives. No description. Merely words and shock.

He’s seen Harry naked in a river. He’s laid beside him, both in their briefs. He’s felt his cock on his thigh and seen his face after he comes, but this is Harry pink and clean and still terribly sleepy, and  _ that, _ apparently, is in a league of its own.

“Hey!” Niall shoots up. “I’ve only got three towels, you fucker!”

Harry’s eyes go wide, and Louis sinks deeper into the couch. “Oh— I—” Harry fumbles, rushing to hurriedly undo the towel wrapped around his hair.

“I’ll use it,” Louis finds himself saying, and he’s not sure how his legs are managing to function, to just  _ get up _ and  _ move _ of their own accord while the rest of his systems are currently battling between the desire to stare and the need to run. “I don’t care.” And he doesn’t.

He grabs the towel from Harry’s outstretched hand, but Harry still looks overly apologetic, so Louis pats him on the hip, because apparently his hands are also set to do their own thing today. 

He doesn’t even have time to panic that this was the wrong move; Harry smiles sweetly and shrugs both shoulders up high, palms splayed upwards. “Sorry, Lou.” The towel on his hips shifts precariously.

Three minutes later, Louis comes with a groan onto the off-white porcelain of Niall Horan’s bathtub, the soft skin of his inner arm pressed tight against his mouth. He thinks of last night, of happiness and laughter, and of Harry’s arms when he danced and the way his hair was always in his eyes. 

He kicks the mess down the drain. 

Thinks of Be With. 

Thinks of the days to come.

✘✘✘✘✘

It’s pouring when they leave Niall’s apartment, an incredible change from the blue and sun not even an hour earlier, and they all dart from the doorway of the building straight into the Garbage Truck as if they’ll melt with the drops. 

“This is the first rain of the summer,” Niall says to no one in particular when the door’s slammed shut and they’re all settled in. “All the fuckin’ farmers’ve been waiting for weeks.” He pushes his rain-damp hair off his forehead and leans back against the car, backpack nestled between his propped up knees. 

“Wasn’t much rain this summer down in Kelso, either,” Liam says from where he’s seated across the way. “Wonder if they’re gettin’ it too,” he adds after a beat.

Louis glances back in the rearview mirror as he pulls out and back down the street. He doesn’t reply because he has no idea if it’s rained in Brunswick, has no idea about anything in Brunswick or Maine itself at all, and the sudden realization that he hasn’t called his mother— hasn’t even really  _ thought  _ much  about his mother in days— leaves a sudden weight in his gut.

He looks to the right when he goes to turn back onto the main road; Harry’s got his legs up on the dash, tape box on his lap as he picks casually through the tapes.  He doesn’t look concerned or affected or anything more than hungover. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s thinking about Brunswick, Maine.

“Hey—” Louis says suddenly, nodding at Harry. “We should probably check in with our folks at some point, shouldn’t we?”

Harry shoots him an odd look. “I’ll pass thanks.” He goes back to looking through the tapes.

Louis’ mouth, poised to add  _ maybe at the next gas station? _ , falls shut. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he has to fill in the blanks for Harry’s thoughts. Has to wonder if there’s even any blanks to fill in. It’s disorientating and that’s unnecessary, and Harry’s always been clear that he doesn’t have the best relationship with his mother, and Louis  _ knows _ that— but. It's jarring all the same.

He focuses back on the pavement before him. “So, tell us about yourself, Niall,” he says then because it’s the thing to do both to distract himself and be polite.

“Niall Horan. Nineteen years old. This is my first time leaving Iowa, and I’m a little fuckin’ scared, but whatever,” Niall replies lazily, and Louis laughs in disbelief because how can someone just  _ admit _ that? “I do tattoos, and I once saw Paul McCartney at a Hardee’s in Des Moines so,” he says slowly, stretching the word out long and slow. “That’s just ‘bout all the good stuff.”

_ “You do tattoos?” _ Zayn and Harry say in unison, and Louis rolls his eyes because of course they would. 

“Sure,” Niall says. “Got my stuff in my bag, even,” he pats his backpack.

“Can we see yours?” Zayn asks, sounding more interested than he has to date. 

Niall laughs loudly. “No way! Not for me, man. I just do ‘em.”

Harry twists fully in his seat to level with him. “You do tattoos but you don’t  _ have _ any tattoos?” he verifies, incredulous.

“What?” Niall scoffs. “As if having ‘em myself will make me better?”

“No—” Harry says halting, slumping against the seat with a confused frown. “I just— it’s weird, I guess. I’m just surprised.”

Niall stretches his arms high and yawns. “Well, there you have it,” Niall replies, totally unbothered. “Now if we’re done with the twenty questions...I’m fuckin’ hungover and wanna crash for another twelve hours. Let me know when we get there.” And he pulls his backpack up onto his thighs and tucks his face down to use it as a pillow.

Louis glances over at Harry, and Harry’s looking right back, equally bemused. Between the seconds that it takes him to speak, he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of stupid, stupid,  _ unnecessary _ relief— they’re back on the same page.

“Niall...you do know that we’ve got like...two days ‘til we hit San Fran, right?” Louis asks uncertainly.

“Two days to sleep,” Niall replies, face smushed in his bag. “Sounds great, man.” And they don’t get another word out of him.

✘✘✘✘✘

So they drive down south instead of out west because six hours in the wrong direction is a fucking  _ lot _ , but Harry puts on Bowie and they smoke to take their minds off it. Niall stays true to his word and shows no signs of waking, and Liam and Zayn talk softly in the backseat. 

Louis gets brave at one point and lets his hand creep over to Harry’s, lets their fingers tangle and pass the hours together. It’s a morning of quiet conversation and smoky air, and the words Be With weave in and out amongst all of these things, but Louis’ bravery stops with sweaty palms and clasped hands, so those words are never spoken.

Instead he says, “I wish we had danced together last night,” during the bridge of a slow, starry song he doesn’t know, and Harry squeezes his fingers and says, “Next time, yeah?” even though they both know that  next time probably doesn’t exist.

Louis has heard rumors about California, though. Has heard things on the news about parades and protests. Mentions of things he’s never had anyone to talk to about.

So as they drive by cornfields down through Iowa, back down to Nebraska, he lets himself daydream. And when he chances a glance over at Harry in the passenger’s seat, his head’s tilted against the glass, his gaze stretching far, far out, and there’s a curve to his smile that tells Louis that, yeah. They’re definitely still on the same page.

✘✘✘✘✘

It’s late afternoon when Zayn offers to drive. He smiles brightly when Liam swaps places with Harry, and Louis doesn’t say a word, just spreads himself out on the carpet in the back and forces himself not to ask all the nosy questions on his mind.

“You’ve been wearing that vest for five days now,” he says in order to distract his unsatiated curiosity. “You  _ really _ don’t have any other shirts do you?”

“And you must  _ really _ not want to lend me one,” Zayn replies easily, and Liam laughs, so Louis kicks at the back of his seat. “If it bothers you so much, just give me a shirt.” He brushes a few stray wisps of hair out of his face gracefully. “I happen to like this vest. It’s not constricting.”

Niall stirs at the uptick in movement and conversation, and Harry bats at Louis’ arm admonishingly, as if Louis doesn’t have the right to speak whenever and however loudly he wants in his own damn van. 

“I’ve been quiet all day!” he complains dramatically because Harry’s fixing him with a look somewhere between amused and considering and that’s the sort of attention that’s gotten addicting over the past few days.

“Zayn,” Harry says softly, presumably for Niall’s benefit. “Can I borrow some paper?”

Louis glares, betrayed. “You’re going to ignore me and  _ draw?” _

Harry wiggles his eyebrows—  _ wouldn’t you like to know, _ Louis knows he’s trying to say, and it’s all he can do not to kiss the smirk off his face.

“Just take my pad from my bag,” Zayn offers. “Got some pens in there, too.”

Louis and Harry half-dive for the bag at the same time, and Louis playfully pushes Harry away with a hand to his hip. He gloats in pantomime victory when he grabs the notepad before Harry can, but then Harry’s all puppy-dog eyes and deep, deep frowns, so he ends up handing it off anyways and resuming his spot against the door, much too close to Harry’s shoulders to be strictly necessary.

Harry beams as if he’s won something worth winning and leans the pad against his propped up knees.  “I’m sort of a champion,” he boasts, voice low. He draws a sloppy tic tac toe board before handing the pen to Louis. “So I’ll let you go first.”

Louis snatches the pen.  _ “This _ is what you had in mind?” he asks, unimpressed. He sighs heavily and blows twice on the point. “Champion,” he mutters airly. “We’ll see about that.”

The road is bumpy and the ride is shaky, but there’s an X for each of Louis’ O’s. As they sit shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, Louis thinks: it feels nice that they have this. Something that is just theirs in this overcrowded van.

Louis strikes a dash through the whole board less than a minute later. “Cat’s scratch,” he says mournfully. And that’s fitting, he thinks, smiling a little at the X’s and O’s filling each box to a tie.  

“Great minds think alike,” Harry says softly and draws the board again. 

They play tic-tac-toe and hangman— J-E-S-U-S, S-E-M-E-N, and G-R-E-E-N— and they stay quiet because the van’s a big bubble, and they’re in their own smaller bubble, a bubble with room just for two.

_ Hi, _ Harry scrawls after their third game of connect the dots. He hands Louis the pen.

_ Hi,  _ he writes back and draws a little smiley face with x’s for eyes.

Harry takes the pen back. He writes  _ how are u? _ and his handwriting is a little shaky from the sway of the car, but his o’s are perfectly round and Louis’ never seen someone write such an attractive h— never even thought to consider an h attractive before.

_ Peachy, _ Louis writes back with somewhat more difficulty. 

When Harry takes the pen back, he writes hunched over, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, and it’s several long moments before he turns the pad for Louis to see. 

_ isnt it weird that we dont really know a lot about each other?  _

An odd feeling settles over Louis when he reads the message, and it takes him a moment to place it. He thinks carefully before he responds.

_ its kind of cool i think. that we can be such good friends so quickly.  _ It’s the best he can do with a shaky hand and a quiet van.

_ yeah. i guess thats true, _ Harry replies, and Louis’ about to reach for the pen when Harry frowns thoughtfully and starts writing again.

_ its nice, _ he writes.  _ I could say whatever about myself & it would be true for you. i can be whoever with you.  _ He smiles when he’s done as if this an incredible revelation, and Louis’ stomach doesn’t sink or turn when he reads these words, as unexpected as they are, because he thinks, deep down, that he knows what Harry means.

Louis looks at the words a long time before he responds.

_you could also just be yourself,_ he writes slowly. He pauses before he adds, _id like that a lot i think._

Louis watches Harry’s eyes scan over his words once, twice, and then three times, and Harry laughs softly as if it were a joke, but there’s a focus in the way he looks at the paper for a few moments longer that lets Louis smile.

_ ok,  _ Harry writes back finally.  _ wanna play guess the lie? _ and Louis nods, stomach knotting a little at the prospect of learning even the stupidest, most benign facts about this sunburnt, windswept boy.

_ ridden a train. been to new york city. driven a motorcycle,  _ Harry writes without a thought.

In the space of three seconds, Louis’ imagination runs wild:

Harry in the window seat of a westbound train, tucked cross-legged because he never sits right, and he’d be too excited anyways. Nose pressed close to the window, big, bright eyes roaming over the landscape.

Harry in the city on a trip with friends, standing small amongst the skyscrapers and traffic, face turned to the sky. Harry running down side streets and navigating the subway, laughing and getting lost, ending up god knows where. 

But Harry on a motorcycle is the clearest of them all. Maybe his cousin would have taught him, or some older kid from school. He’d have wind in his hair and a grin so wide it would hurt, and he’d go faster and faster, screaming into the air, alive with adrenaline and fearless as forever.

_ “I could say whatever about myself and it would be true for you.” _

He wants to know Harry so badly it hurts.

He hesitates before circling  _ driven a motorcycle _ at random because it seems the least likely, which, knowing Harry, probably means it’s the truest of all. 

Harry makes a face when he sees Louis’ decision and then nods with a put-out frown. “Am I not cool enough for a motorcycle?” he leans in close to whisper, and Louis nearly drops the pen at the feeling of hot breath on his ear.

“Of course not,” he manages to whisper back.

But then it's hard to think of his own options with the ghost of Harry's breath still on his neck. He wonders if this is normal— to have someone that makes you feel so simultaneously stupid and smart, so out of control, and fully in the moment.

In too deep, is what he thinks it himself. That’s what you are. In too fucking deep.

_ swam in the ocean. eaten a worm. been to the circus,  _ he scrawls and quickly flips the pad. Harry grins when he reads it and doesn’t hesitate to pick  _ been to the circus _  as the lie.

Louis’ jaw drops dramatically, and he huffs, gesturing at  _ eaten a worm _ with a nasty look that he  _ knows _ that Harry knows means fuck you, you asshole, why would you assume I’ve eaten a worm? Harry smirks and Louis knows he did it just to annoy him, knows this without asking. 

Louis doodles an angry face in response.

_ failed a class. been to the zoo. had a job, _ Harry writes. 

_ been on tv. skipped school. had the stomach flu,  _ Louis says.

And none of it matters and they go back and forth, giggling into their arms and coming up with more and more ridiculous “lies,” and so when it happens, when the metaphorical train goes off the tracks, Louis is caught completely and utterly off-guard.

Harry’s secretive when he writes his next list, totally turning the notepad from Louis’ line of vision. Louis cranes his neck to sneak a peek, but Harry pushes him away from a palm to his forehead, and so Louis’ left staring at up at him with his hair smushed halfway back and a stupid look on his face when he reads:  _ seen rocky. cut my own hair. got caught jacking off.  _ Harry’s hand is still on his forehead. Louis’ eyes bulge.

Tentatively, he points at  _ got caught jacking off _ as the lie, because of course. Harry giggles and shakes his head no, eyes bright and mischievous. 

_ “No?” _ Louis mouths, scandalized. He grabs a pen and draws a huge question mark right down the center of the word _caught_. Logically, he knows that the situation is probably no where near as sexy as it sort of sounds like it has the potential to be, but a grainy, dream-like image of Harry spread out on his bed, slowly—

_ mom. _ Harry writes solemnly and, naturally, pretends to throw up. This promptly puts an end to all of Louis’ fantasizing.

He responds with  _ had a pet, drank tang, and met john wayne, _ because they’re well past the point of taking this seriously, if they ever really did, and, to be fair, nothing is going to top getting caught masturbating by your mother.

Harry’s next turn demolishes this assumption as well.

_ Been to a mall. Been to outer space _ .  _ Kissed only one boy. _ Louis scans the list quickly and then does a double-take, hand wavering when he automatically reaches for the pen.

He falters, and it’s like it takes his brain a decade to catch up with his eyes, to understand what it is that Harry’s implying. And then it clicks.

Harry’s never kissed another boy. 

Louis was his first. 

Just like  _ he _ was Louis’ first. 

His face is on fire when he dares to tear his eyes from the page, but all he sees are soft, pink cheeks and Harry’s bottom lip caught tight between his teeth, and Louis nearly carves a line through  _ been to outer space _  because who fucking cares? Been to the small, been to outer space? Who  _ cares _ ?  _ Harry Styles has only ever kissed one boy and that boy was Louis Tomlinson. _

Harry nods shyly when Louis looks up again to gauge his reaction, and Louis doesn’t even let himself think before writing back,  _ been on a road trip, left the state of maine, kissed more than one boy. _

The laugh Harry lets out is embarrassed and silly and when he snatches the pen back, he shields the pad from Louis’ again, leaving Louis momentarily alone with this momentous, incredible, unbelievable revelation. He bites his grin back,  _ hard,  _ and his jaw twitches, but he’s trying to save face, trying to act like this isn’t the most wonderful, special,  _ incredible _ news in the world.

It reads like a challenge when he sees that Harry’s written back  _ I Have Never _ and drawn a thick, bold line beneath it. He holds Louis’ gaze for a moment, and it’s neutral and loaded and way too long. Louis swallows twice and folds his legs criss-cross. 

Harry turns back to the pad and in careful, even letters writes:  _ had sex. _

Louis’ neck cracks audibly his head shoots up so quickly.  _ with a girl _ , Harry adds in a far messier print, and Louis’ eyes feel like saucers because this took a turn so far left, so unexpected, that the rush that flies up his gut is so sudden and powerful it’s almost painful. He shakes his head, completely off balance. 

_ A boy? _ Harry continues. Louis shakes his head again, harder this time, because  _ of course not, _ and his face—  _ fuck,  _ his face physically  _ feels _ embarrassed. He’s suddenly itchy and hot, and so when Harry watches him, careful and considering, for what seems like eons and eons before ducking down to write yet again, Louis sucks in a breath and holds it.

Right there, smack in the center of a cream colored piece of paper belonging to their very good, very spatially close friend, the words _gotten_ _  a blow job _ are written. Harry holds the pen out expectantly, and Louis grabs it, mind racing. When he writes this time, his hand isn’t shaky from the rock of the van. He draws a line through the words and shakes his head, peering up through the hair that’s fallen into his eyes.

Harry’s sitting there, knees folded close to his chest, tiny patches of sweat dampening his shirt, and his mouth is just— open. Like, the kind of open where you don’t even  _ realize _ it, don’t even feel it. He’s looking down, right at the pad, but when he looks up, he meets Louis’ eyes. His jaw snaps shut, and he turns red.

It’s a reaction, Louis realizes wildly. Or thinks. Hopes.

With a shallow exhale, he prints  _ hand job? _ and looks up quickly, unwilling to miss even a moment of this. There’s a warmth in his gut and on the back of his neck and below his navel— below, below, below— and then Harry silently shakes his head and turns even redder, shifts slightly in his seat, like he can’t help it, like he’s restless and leading.

The van hits a curve and it hits it hard. Gravity and some other higher power send Louis all but tumbling into Harry’s lap with the force of it, and long after they should’ve righted themselves, they still sit there, pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, Louis’ thigh half on Harry’s. No one moves and no one speaks.

And then Harry’s eyes flick down.

Louis follows his gaze and his face flames even harder, stomach curls even tighter, because he’s— he’s hard. Really, noticeably hard. Just from a few words and the implication behind them, and he’s frozen because it’s  _ embarrassing _ , it really is, and that’s  stupid because he doesn’t even have to look up again to know Harry’s eyes are still on him. Can feel the weight of his stare and the few memory of two nights prior covering every inch of his skin.

One glimpse at the crotch of Harry’s cut offs says he feels the same.

Louis clears his throat and readjusts his lax grip on the notepad. With a determined, terrified slash, he crosses out the  _ I Have Never _ .

_ I Would _ he writes in its place. Directly below, he writes  _ touch you, _ and the moment his pen leaves the paper he knows it’s all over.

The print is small, as small as he imagines his voice would be, but he did it, he said it, and he doesn’t look up. He hears a tiny intake of breath and the tension in his chest lessens slightly, only to be replaced by a whole different sort. 

Harry takes the pen then, and Louis  _ still _ doesn’t look up because he’s— he— his face is just  _ hot _ and his jeans are beyond tight and there are three other people in this car and he’s not sure how he got to a point in his life where sending sexual notes in the back of his van isn’t even the fifth weirdest thing to have happened this week, but it’s here and it’s happening and it might not be weird, but it’s huge and exhilarating and that seems like more than enough.

His eyes trace each letter of Harry’s response:

_ kiss you. again.  _

The k is big and sloppy, and on the surface the message is tame, but Louis now knows firsthand what kissing this boy is like. Flashes of tongue and lips and spit and slick flood his mind. His breath quickens, and his cock grows harder.

“You— I—” The words fall choked and thoughtless from his mouth and into Harry’s ear. It’s Harry that shivers this time at the sensation, and what follows is a heady feeling of pride.  _ I did that,  _ Louis thinks.  _ I’m  _ doing _ this. _

Next, there’s fingers on his thigh: light first and then insistent, and a hushed, strangled noise falls from his mouth. He only just barely manages to turn into a cough, but it’s useless because the fingers keep climbing and searching, and Louis stares straight at the pad, even as they inch up his hip and thread under the hem of his shirt, pet over his skin.

Louis’ eyes dart across the car. Niall’s still asleep across from them. Zayn’s still at the wheel. Liam’s still preoccupied with every aspect of Zayn. Their bubble is suddenly magnified, shattered and insulated, all at the same time, and Louis is only nineteen, has only so much control and rational, and this is pushing the limits—  _ Harry’s _ pushing the limits.

It’s dizzying when Harry presses his nose to the shell of Louis’ ear and breathes, “I want to touch you…”  They’ve been doing this, playing this game, keeping up with this torture for days now, and it feels like there’s never a moment— won’t ever _ be _ a moment— in this stupid van, on this stupid trip where they could do this and have this that isn’t  _ near someone _ or wide out in the open, and Louis is aching. He’s  _ aching _ , physically, and— fuck it— emotionally, too, because he wants Harry, and he wants him always and forever and at every second and in every way and he doesn’t want to have to share or be quiet. He wants boy and sweat and laughter that’s  _ his _ and for him alone, and he wants kisses and tongue and touching and—

It’s consuming how much he wants this. He feels full and empty and like he might just be losing his mind. His mouth his dry and his pants are tight and the paper before him says Harry’s never touched a boy, but he’s whispering in Louis’ ear that  _ he would _ and  _ he wants to _ , so—

“Pull off at the next gas station,” Louis says suddenly, heart absolutely pounding in his chest. “I’ve gotta—” he looks at Harry, at his huge, dark, bewildered eyes. “Shit,” he says.

It’s absurd, and he’s absurd, and Harry— it’s  _ Harry  _ that’s absurd because his thumb is still stroking the skin above Louis’ waistband and his nose is still close enough to being pressed into Louis’ hair that Zayn’s knowing look in the rearview mirror is unmistakeable, but Louis doesn’t blame him, Harry that is, because this is the pin that’s been pulled out of a grenade, hair by hair, bit by bit, ever since they got their first taste two nights ago. The explosion is coming and there’s nothing to be done.

It’s twenty minutes before they come upon the next gas station, and Louis has to physically extract himself from Harry’s touch, Harry’s wandering fingers.

_ Stop it! _ he mouths from across the way, seated safely besides Niall. Harry smiles innocently and licks his lips for the umpteenth time. He thinks the message is probably lost this time when he mouths,  _ You’re gonna get chapped lips!, _ doing his very best to look snarky.

When Zayn finally pulls into the first Citgo they see, Louis is out the door and running, or, walking  _ very quickly _ because he does still have  _ a few _ shreds of self-preservation.

This claim promptly goes to hell when he storms into the single-person bathroom in the back of the store and feels Harry hot on his heels.

The door slams closed behind him, and Louis pounces, locking it in a heartbeat.

And then they’re on each other.

“Are we— we— are—” Harry mumbles again and again, voice thick, breath hot where it seeps into the dip of Louis’ neck. “Here?” he finally manages, breaking away but not even bothering to glance around the too small bathroom. His eyes are huge and searching, but they search only for Louis, huge at the prospect of what’s happening, but not at the location. Not really the location.

There’s a knot, big, frizzy, and beautiful, in Harry’s hair, right above his left ear, and there’s a streaky flush snaking out of the collar of his shirt and he— he keeps licking his lips. His teeth dig into the skin, red and shiny, and they’re alone— or as alone as they’ll ever be— and the weight of that itself is crushing.

Louis snaps like a bow.

“Shh! They’ll—” Wet lips.

“They’ll hear—” Wet lips on his. 

_ “Louis, they’ll hear us!”  _ Wet lips, on his, coaxing his mouth open.

“You did this,” he half-whispers, voice lost somewhere between accusing and relenting, and then he springs forward again, catching Harry by the mouth. “So stop making so much noise,” there’s a wet smacking noise as he quickly dives back in for another one, “and kiss me.” One hand lands on Harry’s shoulder, and he pulls himself up just a bit, but the other’s on Harry’s waist, grabbing and squeezing and touching and feeling.

Harry gasps and slouches down, giving back as good as he gets. There’s a tongue licking into Louis’ mouth and hands on his ass, and Harry’s pulling him in—  _ pulling _ him by the ass—  _ Jesus fucking Christ,  _  and then there’s a thigh between Louis’ legs, just a bit, just enough, and every pull, every push is white hot and scratching. Grinding in a gas station, Louis thinks wildly, and his mind must truly have short-circuited if that’s the only thing that comes to mind when he’s got a boy in has hands and a mouth on his mouth.

He wants more, needs more, and he’s not sure how to ask, not sure how to tears his lips away now that they’re exactly where he wants them: licking and sucking and pulling tiny, cut-off whimpers from Harry’s mouth. 

They’re in a gas station bathroom and their friends are outside, undoubtedly aware of what’s conspiring just feet away, and Louis would feel embarrassed if this didn’t feel so much like living.

Harry suddenly shifts and he takes Louis with him until Louis’ back’s against the wall and his knees are shaking. I don’t know what I’m doing, he thinks wildly, afraid to let his lips stop for even a moment lest they never get this chance ever again.

He’s dizzy and panting and about ready to just give in and take and take whatever it is that Harry wants to give him because he doesn’t feel like he could physically— _ spiritually— _ do more. But then Harry dives in, goes straight for Louis’ neck and bites, gives an extra slow rolls of his hips, and Louis bounces— like, toes off the ground, head thrown back, and it all goes straight to his dick. He has no idea what he’s doing, has no idea what to even  _ do— _ he’s got a general idea, okay, sure, but this is real, this is  _ right now, _ this is  _ Harry— _

In all honestly, Louis’ fairly sure his leg only twitches in response to whatever it is that Harry’s just done, but Harry makes a stuttering noise, low and dark, and it’s like Louis’ entire world tilts a degree or twenty.

There, right there in the space between Harry’s shaky, groaning breathes, Louis realizes that now is not the time for complacency. 

It’s hard, pushing his hand between them, forcing Harry to give an inch, only an inch, but when Louis’ fingers creep in, wedge beneath the band, Harry jolts.

“Lou—” he gasps, arching away to give Louis enough space. “You—”

Nineteen years of courage—  _ just do what you do to yourself— _ bring Louis to it then, and he makes quick work of it: button popped, zipper down, briefs shucked. He’s terrified, and beyond turned on, and he barely even takes a moment to admire his handy work, too afraid of losing his nerve, so instead, he lurches forward and presses his face into Harry’s chest.

“If I—” he mumbles into the soft, warm skin just above where Harry’s arm meets his pec, “have to sit in that van next to you for _ one more fucking second—” _

And just like that, he’s got a hand on Harry’s cock and his brain stops working. He stills, like completely stills, and it’s probably only for the space of a heartbeat, but it feels like a lifetime and just as he’s regaining feeling in his toes—

Harry shoves his hand down Louis’ pants.

_ “Oh my god.” _

And then Harry’s got Louis' jeans around his thighs, and his hand starts to move and that’s Louis’ cue too, but his brain  _ isn’t working _ , is blank, is fucking  _ blank _ . Every part of him so focused on the weight of Harry’s hand around him and Harry’s forehead on his. He’s blind because Harry’s fucking curls are in his eyes, because Harry’s stooped, hunched over him, and he’s blind because he’s never felt something like this and, and it’s, it’s—

“Lou,” he hears, broken and desperate.  _ “Lou _ . Please—” and then his hand’s being knocked away and— his back arches— Harry’s cock is pressed against his own, hot and wet, and Harry pulls them off in tandem, and each drag burns a little in the best, best, best way possible.

He forces his eyes open, and there’s blood rushing through his ears, but he has to see— needs to see—

Harry’s eyes are clenched tight and his mouth moves wordlessly with each pump of his own hand, just on and on and on. “You’re beautiful,” Louis says wildly because it’s all he can say and because it’s incomprehensibly true. The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and Harry dives back in, kisses him in response, and he swipes his thumb across the tip of their cocks, and that’s it.

Louis thrusts in fast and uncontrolled, and it’s over, wet and warmth spilling down Harry’s wrist, over his cock— over Harry's cock which is now spurting as well, thick ribbons and lines settling over Louis’ come on Harry’s hand, mixing like paint. Louis groans as Harry’s fingers dig into his hip and he rolls himself through it.

It’s total silence. Louis can’t even hear his own breathing, but his chest is heaving, his mouth his open, and his knees are shaking.

It’s a full thirty seconds before he can even muster the strength to look up. And when he does… he laughs. It’s—he’s— Harry’s just  _ there _ , still pressed right up close, and he looks like he’s seen a ghost, eyes wide, shoulders trembling.

“You alright?” Louis finally asks, taking a reluctant step back to survey the damage. Jizz is drizzled all over the already filthy floor.

“I think...I think I just came my brains out,” Harry admits, blinking slowly as he looks around. A grin blooms across his face then, the reality of it apparently hitting him. “I—  _ fuck— _ ” he laughs loudly. “That— you—  _ fuck!”  _ He looks pointedly at the door. _ “ _ They’re gonna kill us,” he chuckles, looking like he couldn’t possibly care less.

Louis does his very first walk of shame two minutes later. His face is red and he’s sure his hair is matted and sweaty in the worst way possible, but as he strides past Harry, past the gas attendant who doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, right past his friends— Liam scandalized, Zayn good naturedly indifferent— he can’t find it in him to do anything besides smirk, even if his knees still feel like jelly.

Harry slides into the back beside him, appropriately sheepish, and Louis grabs the notepad and flips to their page.

_ Things I’ve Done, _ he writes.

Harry takes the pen.

_ That _

✘✘✘✘✘

The Garbage Truck is silent as they set back off again, and Louis thinks that if this hadn’t been the twelfth or so time that Zayn had played “Surrender” during his various shifts at the wheel that the combination of punchy guitar along with the steady sway of the van and Harry’s hand on his knee might be something on the far side of idyllic. 

As it is, he lets his head tip back far against the door, almost far enough that he can see out the top of the window above him, and smiles as he basks in the afterglow of his very first handjob. 

Until:

“Guys—” Harry sits up straight with a start. “We forgot Niall.”

✘✘✘✘✘

“I would have remembered him eventually,” Zayn says, only vaguely petulant as Niall clamors into the van two minutes and a U-turn later. 

“It’s okay, Zayn,” Liam pats his shoulder comfortingly. “He’s new.” 

Louis cackles. 

“Stupid fuckers,” Niall grumbles, but he tosses them each a candy bar anyways. “You’re welcome!” he adds pointedly. “Fuckin’ blew out of here so fast you forgot me  _ and _ food, for Christ’s sake…”

“I hold myself blameless,” Louis says, holding his palms up. He was  _ occupied _ , he thinks. Stupefied, even.

“Yeah, well, we’ve all gone sex stupid before, and I get that,” Niall rolls the door shut behind him. “But let me tell you— I woulda fuckin’ killed everyone of you if you really forgot about me.”

“There wasn’t any sex!” Louis protests, face going red. His leg is linked over Harry’s and there’s a spot of dried come on the toe of his sneaker.

Niall raises a haughty eyebrow, unconvinced. “No sex?” 

“He probably means no  _ penetrative sex,” _ Zayn clarifies unhelpfully from the front seat. It’s unclear who makes a worse sound: Liam or Louis.

Niall clucks his tongue and frowns. “A load’s a load, man,” he argues. “And a load blown at the hand of another is still sex, no matter how you cut it.” He pauses then and smiles brightly. “Hey! That was pretty fuckin’ poetic,” he says proudly, apparently already over being left behind hours away from home. “Someone write that shit down.” 

Harry laughs loudly, and denies absolutely nothing, pinching at Louis’ lower back, down where no one else can see. Louis swats him away because no one,  _ no one _ is going to belittle his finest act of bravery. 

“Shut the hell up, Horan,” he says grumpily, but he’s unable to even pretend not to smile because there’s a boy right next to him with a hickey just below his collar thanks to Louis himself, and Louis can’t even begin to articulate just how good that feels.

Niall sniffles loudly and stretches his arms up back behind his head, unbothered. “So, what?” he says then, looking around in renewed interest, as if he hadn’t already been in this van for several hours. “This like a couple’s trip or some shit?”

Crickets.

Louis grimaces and thinks from the very bottom of his heart: Lord, kill me now.

“Nope,” Zayn finally says, and Louis can see all the way from the backseat how the tips of his ears are tinged pink. He smiles, vindictive after passing too many days at the merciless hands of Zayn’s big fat mouth and stupidly attractive face.

Niall cocks his head and looks genuinely astounded. “Really?” he asks, squinting. “I could’ve sworn you and Liam were…” he trails off at Louis’ frantic, wide eyed stare.

Louis turns to Harry for help in the same instant that Liam loudly replies, “I’ve got a girl back home!” Louis squeezes his lips shut tight and groans silently. Zayn doesn’t say a word.

“Dude, you’ve got your fuckin’ hand on Zayn’s arm as we speak,” Niall presses, and Louis is shocked, honest to God shocked, because he’s met a lot of interesting people this week and has both seen and experienced a gargantuan amount of truly embarrassing circumstances, but he has never, _ever_ met someone with so little self-awareness as the blonde kid sitting before him.

“Uh—” Liam stutters, and the offending hand flies back to his own lap where he sits staring at it as if the thing’s sprouted a head of its own.

“The government puts fluoride in the water to control our minds!” Harry blurts out, and Louis has to physically cover his face with his hand. “Right, Zayn?”

It’s the worst, least subtle change of topic known to man, but Niall seems distracted enough to gasp out, _ “ _ They do  _ what?”  _ right on cue.

Louis turns to Harry and Harry stares at him innocently like,  _ what was I supposed to do?, _  but Zayn just mumbles something incoherent and fidgets with the neck of his vest, which just proves the magnitude of this supremely awkward moment. Louis keeps his eyes fixed on Harry, wholly unimpressed and clearly saying: _ fix this, you fool. _

Harry sighs and rolls his eyes, grimacing as he visibly racks his brain for another way to diffuse the moment.  _ “Hey!” _ he says too brightly. “Can I see your tattoo stuff?” He’s addressing Niall, but glances several times at Louis as if it check that this attempt was adequate. Louis wonders if he really did come his brains out.

“Sure thing,” Niall agrees happily, and reaches over to drag his backpack up between his knees. He unzips the top and out comes a small cardboard box. “Right here,” he smiles, shaking the box lighty. “Check it out!” Harry takes the box curiously and opens the top. Louis peers down nervously and prays that his van isn’t about to become a makeshift tattoo parlor.

Inside the box lay a spool of white thread, a package of needles, two small vials of ink, a bottle of soap, some tape, and a few yellow pencils. Louis and Harry blink silently as they survey the contents, and all Louis can think is, what the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Harry says aloud and holds up one of the pencils. The rubber eraser is completely covered in black ink. “I— how do you even—-”

“I thought you were a tattoo artist?” Louis questions, and he makes an effort not to sound  _ too _ accusing, but the words still come out that way all the same. He picks up one of the ink vials and examines it skeptically. 

Niall laughs loudly, a loud honking noise. “I never fuckin’ said that!” He snatches the box back. “I’m a fuckin’ cashier at Sweenie’s! Speaking of which…” He cranes forward to look at the watch on Harry’s wrist. “I got a shift in a half hour,” he snorts and looks absolutely delighted. 

Harry waves the pencil back and forth, obviously still extremely confused. 

Niall grabs it and sticks it behind his ear before digging into the box and extracting one of the needles from its package. He winks and pulls the pencil back out, promptly stabbing the blunt end of the needle into the eraser. “Voila!” he says. “Wrap some thread around it to hold the ink and you’ve got yourself a tat gun.”

Louis’ eyes widen in horror, but Harry  _ oohs _ and springs forward on his knees to get a better look.  _ “I _ get it,” Harry nods, inspecting the needle/pencil apparatus as if it were a feat of engineering. “Cool! It’s safe?”

Niall shrugs. “No one’s gotten an infection so far,” he reasons. “Just wash it and shit and don’t be a fuckin’ moron, you know. No big deal.”

“I want one!” Harry says immediately, just as Louis knew that he would. “We should get one!” he turns to Louis eagerly. “Zayn, would you?” 

Zayn nods contemplatively. Louis can’t tell if he’s still wounded or just back to his normal self, and while he would never, ever,  _ ever _ in a hundred million years get a pencil and needle tattoo in the back of his van  _ himself _ , he thinks a bit of pain and rebellion might be good for Zayn. 

Not Harry, though, he thinks protectively. Harry is far too pretty for hepatitis. 

“Louis?” Harry asks, smiling sunnily in a way that would normally have Louis falling over himself, like it or not, to please him. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Louis smiles back.

“You’re no fun,” Harry frowns.

Louis wants to shoot back that that wasn’t what Harry was saying a half hour ago, but he settles for, “I don’t want to die before I see Freddie Mercury, thank you,” and sticks out his tongue.

And so they drive past the same sort of trees and cornfields they’ve been driving past for too many days now, and Harry, Niall, and Zayn shoot the shit about what sort of tattoos Harry and Zayn should get, Louis stubbornly refusing to partake in the conversation other than to suggest that Harry get a dick tattooed in the center of his forehead.

But his leg’s still hooked with Harry’s, and the memories of earlier are stuck on loop in his mind, warm and vibrant, so he smokes a joint and holds Harry’s hand and thinks to himself— though he’d never, ever admit it outloud— that he’s a little excited at the prospect of this whole tattoo thing. Especially if it means the opportunity to get another quiet, fleeting— even  _ mundane _ — glimpse at the constellations that make up Harry Styles. 

✘✘✘✘✘

It’s hours later, and he’s completely stoned when he asks it, but in his defense, both Zayn and Liam have been torturously quiet all afternoon, and Louis is  _ genuinely _ trying to help. He scoots towards the driver’s seat on his knees and drapes himself over the back of the driver’s seat. It’s time to get to the bottom of this is all.

“So what’s the deal with....” he racks his brain for a few moments, “...Leo?” he asks Zayn slowly, making shifty eyes at Liam and offering him a hit of his second joint. 

Zayn frowns, but takes the joint. “Who?”

“You know,” Louis says vaguely, “Leo. That guy you were telling me about. The one you kind of have a... _ thing... _ with… Back home,” he tacks on, super sly. It’s very subtle. He’s positive he sees Liam slouch slightly in his seat, but when he sneaks a peak, he’s staring blankly out the window. 

“You never finished your story,” he attempts to clarify, completely making this up as he goes— which could end terribly, sure, but it  _ won’t _ . Louis just wants to help _. _ “Did you guys ever really talk about it or was it just a...thing?” This may or may not be the most Louis has ever said directly to Zayn without some added addition of snark, and it’s almost the most charitable, so he’s really quite proud.

Zayn doesn’t respond for a long second, holding his hand out for the joint again, and his expression in the rearview mirror is all pinched brows and wrinkled nose.

Louis feels a hand wrap around his ankle, squeezing slightly, and when he looks back, Harry’s gaze darts almost imperceptibly towards Liam and Louis winks. Sort of. 

Harry then comes to the rescue, because of course he does.“You told us about him a few days ago,” he says casually. “Said you were really vibing before you left, but you never really finished the story…?”

Zayn sighs, and his eyes meet Louis’ in the mirror, and there’s a brief moment where Louis wonders if this is the moment where he and Zayn finally form a telepathic connection, but Zayn just glares, unamused, and Louis thinks they probably don’t need telepathy to get  _ that _ message across.

“There’s not really much of a story,” Zayn gives in, voice halting a little, and Louis, blame it on the weed, nearly gasps because Zayn has never seemed remotely uncertain or sad during their few days of acquaintance. “I like him a lot,” Zayn says slowly. “I like his— mindfulness and spirit...I think anyone could see that.” He takes a drag of the joint Louis offers him. “I like that he’s my dynamic opposite, and that I can feel him balance my inner energy.” He taps the ash of the joint into their dirt cup ashtray. “I guess I just… never really knew where we stood.”

Louis nods sagely, feeling completely competent in his new role of romantic entanglement specialist. “One step forward, two step back situation,” he says and takes a short hit before passing the joint to Harry. “That’s no way to live.” He gives great advice, really.

“So you never talked about it at all?” Harry confirms, pulling Louis’ ankle with one hand to bring him back from the front seat while holding the joint out to Niall with the other. “You smoke?” he offers politely.

“Sure,” Niall says easily and takes the small paper.

Zayn sighs again, but it’s short and soft. Louis finds himself gravitating back towards the front— he wants to  _ help— _ but Harry keeps a firm hold on his hand this time. “No, we’ve never talked about it. Never even come close,” Zayn says carefully. “And it’s the type of situation where—” his voice is so low, so vulnerable, that Louis finds himself actually  _ empathizing _ with Zayn for the first time ever. “It’s like, I don’t want to push. I know how I feel, and that’s enough for right now. Just being near him is— _ was— _ ” he quickly corrects himself, “enough. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again,” he adds awkwardly. 

Louis panics suddenly because Liam’s lips are pursed and he does  _ not _ look pleased or thrilled by this conversation, and there’s too many variables as to why that could be:

  1. Liam is homophobe.


  * This seems unlikely to Louis seeing as the Garbage Truck is a homosexual haven, but maybe it’s surfacing the gayer things become?


  1. Liam is not a homophobe, but does not share Zayn’s sudden, zealous infatuation.


  * This also seems unlikely, given that Niall was correct in his observation that Liam’s hand had been on Zayn’s arm, and it also seems like Liam is making progress each day towards surgically inserting himself into Zayn’s very body.


  1. Liam likes Zayn and now thinks that Zayn has a boy he’s in love with back home, wherever Zayn’s supposed home might be. 


  * This also seems ridiculous because it’s so over-the-top obvious how Zayn feels about Liam
  * However, this is also the most positive outcome of the three because it’s the only scenario that has Liam wanting to make sweet, sweet love to Zayn as badly as Zayn wants to do to Liam.
  * Therefore, this is the option Louis chooses in his buzzed out state.



“But now that you’re gone you’re a free man!” Louis says suddenly and probably a little too loudly. “Right?”

“Um,” Zayn says, meeting Louis’ eyes in the rearview mirror. “I...guess?”

“Very ripe for the taking,” Louis adds persuasively. The joint never makes it’s way back to his hand. “Liam,” he then says. “Now that you’re gone, you must be a free man, too! Right?”

Liam’s head snaps to face Louis’ so quickly his neck cracks. “What?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Well...are you going back to Kelso?” Harry asks more gently, pulling Louis back into his side from where he’d gotten back onto his knees at some point. 

“N-no,” Liam mumbles. “I mean— I don’t—”

Louis thinks it’s very chivalrous when Zayn interjects, “Leave him alone, guys,” even though it seems like he’s  _ always _ asking them to leave Liam alone, which is a bit rude seeing as they’ve never done anything except be nice to him.

“What the fuck are you even talking about, Louis?” Zayn snaps.

“Stop thinking out loud,” Harry bends down to whisper in his ear. Louis mouth forms a solid O. 

“Well.  _ I _ say,” Niall interjects, pausing to cough through a puff of smoke. “If you’re not gonna be with the person. Like... _ physically _ . Then it’s over. End of story.” He coughs a little more, but he looks so kind, so serious, that Louis doesn’t even make fun of him, even if he somehow has missed the entire subtext of this conversation. Which, Louis’ not sure if he should be impressed with himself or smack Niall upside the head. “But,” Niall adds wisely, “if you  _ do _ ever see that guy again, Zayn, you gotta tell him how you fuckin’ feel, man.”

“I know…” Zayn says. “I just… I don’t know if he even realizes he’s—” he sighs. “I think I need to draw my feelings for a while. Reset my energy. Can someone else drive?”

Louis’ at that point of a high where sleep is coming and it’s coming quick, and he’s also sort of just over this conversation and over listening to Blue Öyster Cult on repeat while Zayn mopes in the front seat, so he settles in for real next to Harry, going so far as to let himself curl up next to his side and rest his head on Harry’s shoulder.

It’s only then, as Louis feels Harry’s arm wrap around his shoulder and his eyes start to drift shut, that Liam asks Zayn from the front seat, the unmistakable tone of petty jealousy drenching his voice:

“So... Who’s Leo?”

✘✘✘✘✘

At approximately 6:17 PM, they pass through a town called Lexington, Nebraska, and Louis’ life changes forever because Harry swears,  _ swears _ he saw a McDonald’s with a drive-thru, and none of them have ever actually seen one of those in real life before, so of course they double back around.

They all get Big Macs, and Zayn tries to pretend he doesn’t like his as much as he does, and Louis is about as stoked as he can get because this is like, Future Shit, even if it does taste the same as it does when you just go inside like normal.

Every action, however, has an equal and opposite reaction, and it seems that while the universe had been content to give Louis the privilege of ordering a hamburger from the comfort of his own vehicle, it also apparently decided that he would not be allowed to  _ enjoy _ said meal:

Niall breaks out his “tattoo gun” over dinner. It’s both the first time Louis has actually been able to drive up to a building and just  _ get food _ without getting out (fuck, why didn’t anyone think of this sooner?), and also the first time he’s ever seen someone get a tattoo. He’s well aware that this trip is full of firsts, but as Niall gets everything ready, Louis stomach turns a little, and he just wishes that these firsts didn’t involve needles and blood while he also has food in front of him.

“Ready?” Niall asks through a mouthful of french fries not much later. Harry’s skin is wiped clean with some soap, bottled water, and McDonald’s napkins. The pencil/needle device hovers just about his bicep, wrapped in thread and dipped in black ink, all ready to go.

“Hell yeah!” Harry cheers, and Louis can’t believe how  _ calm _ he looks through this, how wholey excited and unbothered. That is, until his freehand finds Louis’ at the very last second. Their fingers twist together, and just as the needle makes its first tiny mark, Harry’s eyes flash up to meet his. He grins, and Louis sighs, unable to keep from smiling even as he takes a huge bite of burger to distract himself.

“You look like you’re the one about to get the tattoo,” Harry laughs as the needle sinks in, ink blurting up to cover the skin below.

Liam gasps around his straw, and Louis can’t help but lean forward, intrigued despite himself.

_ “Ah,” _ Harry hisses slightly. Louis’ eyes go wide because that...that looks like it  _ hurts, _ but Harry’s smiling, and saying, “Okay…that’s not bad.” 

“Kinda cool, right?” Niall smirks, blotting the ink away. “But just you wait. Doesn’t hurt now, but it gets raw fast. Takes a while, though. It’s just a fuck-ton of dots, you know.”

An hour and two Big Mac’s each later, the sky is gray, the air is heavy with humidity, and after much laughter and frequent stifled moaning, Harry has the outline of a star on his bicep. 

“Only hurt when you kept going over that same fucking corner for like twenty minutes,” he complains, knocking at Niall playfully. 

It’s a little crooked and nowhere near perfect, but Harry’s grinning like it’s the best thing ever, so Louis kisses his cheek and smiles. Anything that makes Harry happy is just fine by him.

✘✘✘✘✘

When night falls, it starts drizzling, then raining, and then torrential downpouring, enough to the point where no one even wants to keep driving. They can’t sleep outside, so they crack the windows and squeeze like sardines, all five of them, right into the backseat. When Louis pulls over, Harry smiles softly in the moonlight and pats the little space next to him where he’s wedged up against the truck door. 

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” Louis complains almost immediately, voice only a whisper as he stretches out behind Harry’s back. His knees curl into the dips of Harry’s like it’s completely natural. Like it’s the only way to sleep. Like it’s the only way they’ve ever slept. 

He wipes his mouth dramatically, and Harry whispers “Oh, shut up…” because he knows Louis is full of shit, and Louis can hear the fondness in his voice. He goes to squeeze Harry a little tighter, and Harry readjusts Louis’ grip around his waist, wedging himself even more securely against his chest.

It’s stuffy and cramped, and Niall apparently snores like a fucking fog horn when he goes into actual REM, but Louis just smiles at the sound of the rain and whispers in Harry’s ear, “How’s the tattoo?”

“Good,” Harry says, even more softly. “Still think you should get one, though…” His voice is heavy and full of sleep, and it’s not long before his breathing evens out and his grip on Louis’ fingers laxes.

“Maybe,” Louis whispers, mostly because he knows Harry can’t hear it. Mostly because he wants to say it. Mostly because he’s trying not to think about how it seems like there isn’t much that, for Harry Styles, he wouldn’t do.


	8. Chapter 8

****⩶** **

**1447 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

Louis doesn’t wake up sad, but he wakes up disoriented, and in the strange gray-blue light of the sky a full night after raining, it almost feels like the same thing.

He rolls onto his back stiffly, actually wiping Harry’s hair out of his mouth this time, and he vaguely recognizes that the van door is open and Liam and Zayn are absent, presumably awake and outside. The air isn’t so hot for the first time in days, cooled by the storm.

He lays there on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the Garbage Truck, and a pit settles into his stomach that he doesn’t have to think too hard to place.

He’s homesick. 

Not for Maine, not for Brunswick, but for his family. 

Mostly his mom. 

It had started yesterday, with the rain comments from Niall and Liam, with realizing that he hadn’t even thought of his family in days, with Harry’s dismissal of even the  _ thought _ of calling home.  He hadn’t thought too hard on it, just sort of accepted that he’d been kind of a shit son and brother, and it hadn’t gone away, but it hadn’t been like, a  _ thing. _

It’s a thing now.

He feels a little nauseous, and that’s dumb because who feels nauseous just because they haven’t spoken to their mom in a few days? Who wakes up feeling lost and lonely even though they’re exactly where they want to be, surrounded by the people they want to be with?

Louis feels Harry squirm in his sleep, and he rolls onto his side just as Harry rolls onto his back; he nudges his head onto Harry’s shoulder and drapes an arm over his chest  and wonders when he got so comfortable with a boy who said he wasn’t looking for love and who has never even explained why he left home in the first place.

The skin around the star tattoo on Harry’s bicep glows red, and Louis makes a mental note to pick up bandaids at the next gas station. 

He wonders what his mother, nurse extraordinaire, would say if she knew his friends were exchanging homemade tats in the backseat of his car and not even bothering to bandage them up afterwards.

He wonders if Harry can feel him watching him, or if when he blinks awake, squinting in the pale light, he wakes up on his own.

It’s a lot to wonder so early in the morning.

“Hi,” Louis says quietly. 

Harry, to his credit, tries to smile sleepily. It comes out more like a grimace. “Hey.”

“I miss my mom,” Louis says, simple and soft, because it can’t be even 8 AM and his brain isn’t working properly.

Harry frowns sleepily and rolls onto his side, face squishing into the side of his own arm. “I’m sorry.”

Louis shrugs and his shoulders almost touch his ears they go up so high; he crosses his arms over his chest, fists fitting under his chin. He feels small and stupid, and Harry looks so warm and soft, still only half awake.  “It’s okay,” Louis says. And then, “do you miss yours?”

Harry shrugs then, mimicking Louis. His hands cross over his chest. “Not really,” he says. It doesn’t look like it costs him anything to say it, good, bad or otherwise, and Louis doesn’t know what to do with that, even though he knows, rationally, that not all families are the same.

It’s 8 AM and it’s a bad idea, but he has to know because yesterday was the sixth day in a row Louis went to sleep thinking,  _ today is a day I will never forget, _ and it’s easy to kiss and smile and laugh in the moment, but moments don’t last forever.

“Will you go back after the show?” he asks, and he forces himself to look Harry in the eye when he says it.

Harry’s face doesn’t his change, and his eyes don’t flicker. “To Maine?” he says. Louis nods. “No. I don’t think so.”

Which is fine, totally fine, because up until this morning Louis hadn’t thought that he would either. And it’s not that he will, but he can’t fathom what it would be like to not care either way.

“What are you gonna do then?” Louis asks, and he lets his fingers curl over the bones of Harry’s wrist. All I want you to do is explain, he thinks.

Harry rolls onto his stomach, and his wrist slips out of Louis’ hand. “Why do we have to think about it?” he says, and when he pokes his head up again, Louis can tell he’s trying to reassure him with his smile. 

Louis forces himself to smile back. Neither one says anything for a long time.

“I wish I knew what was going on inside your head sometimes,” Louis whispers. It’s so soft he’s almost unsure if he actually said it, but the moment the words leave his mouth he wants to shove them back in, swallow them whole along with every stupid, every oversensitive emotion he’s ever felt.

All this because Harry won’t call his damn mother.

_ “Like, this is my first time even away from home,” he nods at Zayn. “Which. That’s a story for another time.”  _

_ //  _

_ “ _ _ It’s like I said,” he says quietly. “I get it.” Liam nods, lips pursed. _

Louis searches Harry’s face and wants to understand.

Harry rolls onto his back. The glass on the window is etched with condensation from the rain overnight and the cool morning air. He reaches up and his fingers brush over the bottom of the pane, leaving streaks in their wake. With a single finger he traces L O U I S and circles it with a heart.

The concert is two days from now, Saturday the 22nd. For the first time since they’ve left, all Louis can think about is the 23rd.

✘✘✘✘✘

In the end, it’s Niall that pulls Louis out of his early morning funk by tossing them each a Twinkie for breakfast and saying, “So. Are we there yet?” before they’ve even started driving. It’s an excuse to throw a dirty t-shirt in someone’s face— fuck do they need to clean up this van— and that alone is a nice enough release for his low-energy frustration for the time being. 

Harry burrows his face down deeper into his arms, and Louis considers him quietly as he unwraps his ultra-nutritious breakfast. 

Whatever, he thinks and takes a bite of Twinkie.

Liam and Zayn fall back into the van a little while later, and they both look vaguely spooked, but there aren’t any tears and Louis didn’t hear any yelling, so he figures they’re probably okay.

“You up for driving, Niall?” Louis asks, watching as Harry wrinkles his nose in his sleep.

Zayn stretches up so his hands frame the doorway and has the audacity to point out,  “You never drive anymore.” Louis doesn’t even bother denying this.

But Niall is Niall, and in the very short time that Louis has known him, he thinks that it’s fair to say that one of his defining characteristics is his loyalty to shrugging and saying, “Yeah, okay,” and that’s exactly what he does.

“You snore like an elephant,” Louis informs him kindly as he watches Niall clamor straight into the driver’s seat from the back of the van. “I really thought I was gonna have to kill you last night,” he adds.

“Go to hell,” Niall replies warmly and starts the van.

Liam ends up in the front seat without a word, and Zayn stays in the back with Louis and Harry’s lifeless body. Louis raises an eyebrow at Zayn, but he just hastily grabs his bag and pulls out his drawing pad. 

“Can we find a river today?” he mumbles without looking up from his paper. “Running out of water…”

Louis, personally, would like to spend one entire day just  _ driving _ , because at this point he has genuinely no idea how much longer it’ll take to get to San Fran, and he’s getting slightly nervous, given their track record. However, he also doesn’t particularly want to listen to Zayn gripe about flouride and clouded minds for the next day or so, so he just shrugs and lays back down besides Harry. “Be my guest,” he says. “You gotta find it yourself, though.”

✘✘✘✘✘

By the time Zayn directs them to the nearest river, the sun is out again, Harry is awake and gas-station caffeinated, and Liam still has yet to say a word.

“Not to be pushy or anything,” Louis says with every intention of being pushy, “but can this like. Be a quick trip?”

Harry sidles up to him where they all stand on the grassy bank of a river just as dingy and questionable as the one before it. Zayn goes straight for the murky water without hesitation. 

“Relax,” Harry smiles and presses a soft kiss to Louis’ cheek. As if no one’s around. As if no one is watching.

Louis ignores the twist in his stomach, the pleasant flutter he can’t seem to fucking kick whenever Harry so much as touches him, and says, “Your arm’s gonna fall off if you even  _ think _ about stepping in that water, you know.” Wishes that just as it always seems so easy for Harry to just  _ do,  _ that it were just as easy for himself not to feel.

Harry’s hand flies up to his tattoo, and his palm easily covers the small ink. “Fuck,” he laughs, “I’d almost forgotten about that, I think.” It’s stupid and sincere and Louis wishes he could just turn off his mind for even one whole minute.

“You’ll be okay, Harry,” Zayn calls from where he’s currently in his underwear, shin deep in the river.

Niall kicks off his shoes and jeans and runs straight into the water. “Fuck!” he yells. “Shit, that’s cold,” he turns to Zayn. “Asshole,” he says, and then, still blatantly cringing at the temperature of the water, he shouts, “Harry, come on! You’ll be fine! Just don’t like… fuckin’ dunk your arm, or whatever.” 

So, of course Harry quickly shucks his cut offs and t-shirt and takes off running as well, a blur of skin and white briefs, and of course he launches himself straight into the water, and of course he totally dunks himself, and of course Niall thinks it’s hilarious. 

He rights himself immediately, pushing sopping wet curls off his face with two hands. “Lou- _ ie,” _ Harry calls out in a sing-song voice. “Lou _ -ie!” _ He’s grinning and motioning with grabby, excited hands for Louis to join him, and staring at him with these big, happy eyes, and for all the rawness of the morning, this still feels good. This sort of attention, bright and simple and light, from Harry of all people, could never not feel good, he thinks.

Zayn tosses the last of his water bottles, all completely filled to the brim with light brown water, onto to the shore, and as if he’d just been waiting for his cue, Niall suddenly jumps onto his back.

“Chicken fight!” he calls out, even as Zayn shrieks and stumbles, sending them both flying backwards into the water. “Louis— get on Harry’s back!” he orders, clambering right back onto Zayn. 

And so he does, because there won’t ever be a time in which Louis won’t voluntarily climb onto Harry Style’s wet, slippery back. It’s actually remarkable character growth, he thinks, that he isn’t (too) afraid of the correlation between unbidden boners and semi-naked men, this time. 

And for a few minutes, it’s fun— the sun is warm, and the water isn’t  _ actually _ that cold, and Harry’s screaming laughter every time Niall and Zayn charge them or try to swipe at them is probably one of the nicest sounds in world. But then the battle suddenly pivots and Louis is stuck facing the shore, facing little Liam Payne sitting quietly on the grass all by himself, arms hugging his propped up knees in a way he probably thinks looks casual.

He doesn’t even think about it. “Fuck, I’m cold,” he says and lets himself fall back first into the water. One of Harry’s hands wraps around his ankle, and he feels himself being yanked forward like a fish.

“You made us lose!” Harry pouts accusingly. “What was that for?” His hair’s plastered against his forehead and Louis would like nothing more than to drape himself across Harry’s back for the rest of eternity, but Liam’s just  _ sitting there _ on the shore, and Louis has always been a bit of a sucker for puppies.

“Gonna see what Lima’s up to real quick,” Louis says casually, and Harry glances at the bank, eyes widening almost imperceptibly in understanding. 

Getting out of the water— the sting of cold air, dirt and grass clinging to his feet and legs— quickly reminds Louis why he hadn’t been gung-ho to get in in the first place.

“I shouldn’t’ve fuckin’ done that,” he announces, plopping down besides Liam. “Don’t go in. Not worth it.” Liam stiffens slightly, and though his head doesn’t move, his eyes trail down Louis’ body. Louis frowns and then starts, realizing he’s still in his underwear.

_ “Oh. _ Um...” he chuckles awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s those two,” he jerks his head at Harry and Zayn. “They’re, like...  _ always _ stripping down. I’ve gotten used to it. Weirdos,” he adds, but the affection in his voice is unmistakeable. 

Liam laughs a little too, but it’s forced and quiet. 

Louis looks back out at the river, to where Niall and Harry are now taking turns dunking Zayn repeatedly, and then he looks down. There’s little clumps of grass all around, freshly picked and plucked. 

He hesitates a moment because he feels like he’s never really been the best at knowing when to push and when to let it be, and while Liam  _ really _ looks like a sad puppy right now, maybe that’s not an invitation. 

Liam sighs, and it’s tiny and quiet, and that does it.

“...you okay?” Louis finally asks.

Liam startles. “Me?” he frowns, ripping up another little clump of grass.“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright. Why?”

Louis follows the movement with his eyes. “You just seem...quiet,” Louis says carefully. “Did something happen with Zayn this morning?” he adds, all attempts at subtlety falling to the wayside almost immediately.

“No,” Liam says quickly. And then, “I don’t know.” He rips up another clump of grass. “I’m okay.” 

Louis frowns. “You’re gonna tear up this whole field by the time we go, man. Sure you’re okay?”

Liam doesn’t respond, but Louis watches as his hands freeze and his throat quivers.

Louis sighs. And then, more gently, praying to God he’s not misreading the situation, he plucks up the courage to say something that, if he’s correct, Liam probably needs to hear. “You know…” he begins slowly. “The first person I said anything about…” he trails off awkwardly, waving a hand to fill the silence, “to anyone, it was my mom. I thought I was gonna shit myself the whole time,” he says softly. “Felt better afterwards.” He pauses and his words hang thick in the air. “Just sayin’.”

In the time it takes Liam to respond, he rips up three more clumps of grass, divides them each into even smaller clumps, and swallows three times.

Finally, he says, “I didn’t have music back home… It wasn’t— my daddy didn't really like it, ya know?” He inhales sharply. “I found that Styx tape— I don’t know if you remember. I mentioned—”

“Yeah,” Louis cuts him off, nodding seriously.

Liam smiles, sheepish. “I found it at school last year. It must’ve fallen outta someone’s bag or somethin'.” He kicks at the dirt with the heel of his sneaker. “I thought it was a gift from God at the time…” Louis smiles sadly at the thought. “I used to offer to do all sorts of errands for my mama just to get the chance to play it,” Liam adds. “We don’t get many stations out in Kelso. Just country and gospel, ‘n stuff. So...that was it for me.” He shakes his head, and Louis doesn’t know where this is going and doesn’t really know what to say.

Liam looks painfully embarrassed when he says, “I wish I knew all the songs y’all do. I feel like— it feels like I’m missin’ something’ sometimes when y’all talk. It’s like… it’s like you’re from a totally different planet or somethin'...” Liam trails off, shaking his head, eyes still on the grass. Louis hums quietly. “Like...a planet that does drugs...but y’all aren’t druggies, and you don’t go to church, but y’all aren’t... _ bad people _ .” 

After a moment he adds, in a voice so soft it almost hurts, “You kiss boys, but y’all aren’t bad people.”

Louis doesn’t reply and fiddles with the grass himself, just for something to do. Liam’s silent a long time before he says, “I like girls,” very quietly. “I really  _ do _ have a girlfriend back home. She’s...she’s a sweetheart,” he says helplessly.

Louis bites his lip and gauges his response. “Zayn likes girls and guys,” he offers carefully. “Just— so you know.”

Liam’s head snaps up. “No shit?”

“You’ll— I mean, you’ll have to ask him about it,” Louis says quickly, hoping he’s not overstepping. “But yeah, from what I understand, yeah.”

Liam looks like his whole world has been tilted. “I never— I never knew— I thought—” His mouth snaps shut and he swallows hard. And then, in a voice too small for someone so brave, he says, “I never knew anyone else like... _ that _ ... existed.” He looks caught somewhere between astounded and skeptical at the very thought.

“Well,” Louis says thoughtfully. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t either. Zayn told me. I guess it makes sense, though,” he adds, suddenly feeling a great deal of responsibility to get this right in a way no one was ever around to do for him. “I mean. Why not, right? You know how you feel. So...if you feel it...it  _ must _ exist.

“I know you feel like...left out or whatever sometimes,” he continues measuredly. “And I’m sorry. I know I tease a lot, but it’s always just...I don’t know. Me being a dick, or whatever.” He smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “And...again, if it makes you feel any better…” He takes a breath. “I constantly feel out of my league too,” he admits. “I think maybe Zayn and Harry just have that effect on people.”

“Niall, too,” Liam adds, looking back down at the grass.

“Niall, too,” Louis agrees.

“I think,” Liam suddenly says in a surprisingly loud voice, and Louis can see the gears turning in his head as he forces himself to speak. Their eyes meet, and Liam’s voice tapers back off. “I think I might really like Zayn.” Louis’ heart leaps into his throat. “And I feel like— like a girl...or like a baby...for being all torn up by it,” Liam says. “I know it’s dumb.”

Louis has to think before he responds, because he thinks Liam might have just put into words the very thing that’s been eating at him for days now, and hearing it out loud, hearing it said that way...it’s like a light bulb goes off.

“I get torn up about shit, too, Liam,” Louis agrees slowly. “Like. All the time…  _ constantly _ . But I mean. We’re— I don’t know. We’re human, aren’t we? I think we’re allowed to feel— like. You know. Just...feel? Not that it  _ feels _ any less dumb to feel that way,” he tacks on, laughing at little in disbelief. “Just. I don’t think we can help it,” he muses. “Like...I don’t know. I was all moody about shit this morning and I kept thinking: well, fuck.  _ It is what it is. _ Like, about all the bad shit I was feeling, or whatever. Like, in a negative way.

“But like…” he trails off because it’s as if his mind is ahead of his thoughts somehow. “That’s just it isn’t it?  _ It is what it is _ , and that’s okay. It’s okay to feel like shit and  _ it is what it is _ because sometimes that’s just what’s gonna happen, isn’t it? We’re gonna feel left out, or over our heads, or like we’re so fucking in love that we don’t know what to do about it…” he looks straight into Liam’s bewildered eyes and smiles contemplatively. “It is what it is.”

Liam doesn’t look away when he says, “You don’t think it’s cause— we—”

“Like dick?” Louis finishes with a grin. Liam blushes and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t think so. It’s like I said. We’re humans, aren’t we? It’s not… I don’t think it’s a girl thing to feel shit. Or like...a gay thing.” He pauses and kicks at the grass a little. “But also… I guess it’s not the end of the world if that  _ is _ why,” he adds. And internally, he doesn’t know if he can  _ really _ just accept that  _ it is what it is, _ that  _ all of this _ — his feelings for Harry, Liam’s uncertainty about himself— just is what it is. 

“I know this was supposed to be me helping you deal with your sexuality crisis or whatever,” Louis jokes, “but I actually feel a lot better now, myself. Thanks, man.”

Liam just chuckles and shakes his head. He doesn’t look entirely convinced, either, but that’s okay, Louis thinks. It is what it is.

✘✘✘✘✘

When it’s time to head off again, everyone sufficiently hydrated or soaking wet or philosophically aligned, Harry grabs Louis’ wrist and holds him back as the others traipse over to the Garbage Truck.

“Everything alright?” he asks seriously. His eyes are full of concern which turns to surprise and then quiet, happy joy when Louis raises up on his toes _ — just a little—  _ to kiss him on the cheek.

“Yep,” he says, resting back back on his fest. “Lima was just finally coming to terms with,  _ you know,” _ he waves a hand and smirks.

Harry catches  his wrist and holds it. “Calmed him down, did you?” he asks, and it sounds like a joke, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his eyes sort of settle and smile. 

Louis shrugs. “Just reminded him it’s not the end of the world. Doubt anyone’s ever told him that before.”

Harry blinks and sucks the corner of his lip in. “Definitely not,” he agrees belatedly. His face melts into a full-on grin. “Nice job,” he says.

And as they walk back to the van, hand in hand, Louis still doesn’t know how it is that he’s let himself feel the way he does for a boy the way Harry is, but it’s okay, he thinks. It’ll be okay.

✘✘✘✘✘

Louis arrives back at the Garbage Truck with a newfound sense of loyalty and responsibility for Liam Payne. 

While the others towel off with old t-shirts, Liam waves him over to the driver’s side door awkwardly.

“Louis,” he says delicately, slouching against the door frame with folded arms. “I, um… I gotta question.”

Louis blinks and tucks his hands in his back pockets, glancing over his shoulder at the others. “...alright?” he says just as carefully.

“I, uh. I wanna try it,” Liam says. His face turns a little red.

“Try...what?” Louis replies slowly and prays to God Liam doesn’t have it in his brain that Louis is going to show him the ropes of gay sex or—

“Marijuana.” The words come out rushed and just a little bit embarrassed. 

“Oh,” Louis says, extremely relieved. “Really? You’ve never really seemed like…?”

“Well...I said it myself earlier, didn’t I? Smoking a little doesn't make any of y’all druggies, or nothin',” Liam shrugs a shoulder awkwardly, hands still rammed in his jeans. “I just think—” he trails off and then breaks into a guilty grin. “Why not, right? Just a little?”

“Sure,” Louis says immediately, still a bit off guard. “Like...now?” Liam shrugs again, pink faced.

And so Louis climbs into the driver’s seat, and Liam slides into the passenger’s side, and feeling a little like a priest passing out communion, Louis passes him a half-smoked joint and the lighter. “I don’t think I’ve ever corrupted anyone so directly before,” he says thoughtfully. “Like. I was  _ there _ when Oli and Stan smoked for the first time, but like. It was my first time, too. This is exciting.”

Liam looks at him helplessly, the lighter clutched in one hand, the joint carefully pinched between the fingers of the other. Louis can hear the others bicker outside over who’s turn it is to drive. “So…?”

“Oh,” Louis snaps to it, snatching the lighter back. “Right. Okay. So. Um. Just like… put it in your mouth like— no, other end! Other end!” he says quickly. “Okay. So, yeah, now I’ll light it, and you just, like...breathe in. Just do a little or you’ll cough all over the place,” he warns.

Liam then proceeds to inhale as hard as he can, which, naturally, results in a good two minutes of hacking and spluttering and gasping. It’s perfect timing for Zayn and company to settle back into the van. 

“Told you,” Louis smirks as Liam gestures for water, red faced.

“You okay?” Zayn immediately asks, frowning with concern. He leans over to pat Liam’s hunched back a few times.

“He just took his first puff of a joint,” Louis explains proudly. 

Zayn looks alarmed. “What? You didn’t force—”

“Shut the fuck up, Zayn,” Louis says easily, shifting into drive. “It was his idea.”

It takes him a drag or two, but Liam gets the hang of it eventually, and soon enough he’s staring out the window with a goofy grin, bobbing along quietly to the radio. “This was a good idea,” he announces to no one in particular. He then abruptly turns and wiggles head first into the back seat, nearly squashing Niall as he sets up his prison tat station yet again. Niall swats at his face, but Liam just says, “Thanks, Louis,” with a red eyed smile and settles down, cross legged.

“Who’s up this time?” Louis asks warily, eyeing the pencil and needle contraption from the rearview mirror. He makes brief, exaggeratedly judgemental eye contact with Harry, but Harry just shakes his head and shifts to his knees.

“Not me,” he says, pushing himself forward to take Liam’s place in the front seat. “Not this time anyways. Still tryin’ to think what I should do next… Zaynie’s up for it though, right?” Harry settles into his new seat. “What are you getting again?” he asks Zayn, staring at Louis with a knowing smile.

“A yin-yang sign,” Zayn replies pleasantly. 

Like the punchline to a joke that he  _ knew _ Louis would adore, Harry grins. 

A  _ yin-yang sign, _ Louis mouths silently to himself, eyes locked firmly on the road. He doesn’t trust himself to look at Harry again, afraid he’ll actually burst out laughing.

“What do you think, Lou?” Harry prods him, and his voice is airy and light in a way that would just sound silly and excited to anyone else, but which Louis knows is really elatedly mocking. “I think it’s very fitting of Zayn’s nature, don’t you?”

“I think that sounds really...meaningful, Zayn,” Louis agrees solemnly, physically unable to bite down on his grin. 

“Thanks,” Zayn nods. “I think it will really help balance me out,” he adds thoughtfully. 

“And what are  _ you  _ going to get, Mr—” Harry cuts himself off, pondering. “Wait. What’s your last name again?”

“Tomlinson,” Louis rolls his eyes.

Harry snaps his fingers and settles himself, back against the door. “Right. So what’ll it be, Mr. Tomlinson?” he says in a deep voice, shoving his hand in Louis’ face as if he were a reporter holding out a microphone. “Something traditional? An anchor? A ship, maybe?” he suggests. 

Louis bats his hand away. “The hell? Do I look like I’m in the Navy or something?” He fixes Harry with a withering look. “I’ve never even been on a boat.”

Harry sniffs haughtily. “Well,  _ I  _ happen to think it would be nice. Very symbolic.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Symbolic of what?” Before Harry can defend his nautical leanings, however, Louis adds, “You know, I’m not even convinced Niall can actually draw in a straight line. Have you seen that thing on your arm?” he teases. Truly, the star isn’t  _ that _ bad— though Louis still holds that a ship or an anchor would be far beyond the scope of Niall’s little needle kit.

Niall makes a wounded noise from the back seat. “That hurt, Tomlinson,” he says.

“You’ll recover, I’m sure,” Louis laughs. 

“You  _ need one,” _ Harry whines, poking Louis petulantly in the leg.  _ “Please.” _

Louis grabs his finger mid-poke. “Why do you even care so much?” he demands. 

Harry smiles wickedly and mumbles something low. 

Louis narrows his eyes. “What was that?”

Harry sighs and rolls his eyes, still grinning like he can’t help it. “I  _ said,” _ he says loudly before lifting himself off his seat and leaning over to whisper straight into Louis’ ear, “you’d look sexy.” 

Louis chokes on air. 

Harry sits back in his seat with a self-satisfied smirk, and Louis grips the wheel, the phrase _Tattoos Are Permanent. Don’t Do It_ , playing on loop in his head. His face is red and a beautiful boy is telling him he’d look sexy and that has  _ never _ been an option thus far in Louis life. His resolve is more than wavering.

Tattoos Are Fucking Permanent, he thinks firmly. Don’t Fucking Do It.

“I’ll get one with you, if you want,” Harry suddenly says, and Louis nearly bites his own tongue because Harry must— he means getting them done _together._ He doesn’t mean— like—

“Get one with me!” Harry begs. “We can think of something together!”

No way. There’s no way.

Surely Harry isn’t just  _ throwing that out there  _ at random. Surely he doesn’t think that that’s any  _ less _ terrifying, does he?

“With?” Louis questions slowly, just to be sure. It’s Be With all over again, and it’s incredible and incredibly unreal how easily Harry just pins them together over and over again, as if Louis wouldn’t give anything to have With be the word that joins him to Harry in every way possible.

“Sure,” Harry shrugs, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt. He traces the skin of his bicep with a single finger. “Your face. Right here. What’d you say?” He’s fighting to keep his expression serious, but his dimples give him away, just like always. Louis buys into the joke and strokes his chin and hums as if really considering it, just to buy himself enough time to swallow down the eagerness shooting up his throat, threatening to scream,  _ For you I would. What should we get? _

He settles on, “I’ll think about it,” and tries to keep his voice level, banking on the uncertain waver coming off as as an awkward let down rather than the itching desire to Do It that it really is. 

He can’t get a tattoo with a boy he met a week ago. That shouldn’t even be a question in his mind.

“We could both get the outline of Maine,” Harry says thoughtfully, more to himself than anything else. He rests his chin on his knees, pulled in high to his chest. “Or…” He clicks his tongue a few times as he thinks, and Louis forces himself to ignore what a pretty picture he paints, curled up in his seat, hair in his eyes, sleeves rolled all the way up. Forces himself to think of bacterial infections and botched line-jobs and the ramifications of getting a tattoo with the boy he is head over heels for, who will surely be out of his life in four to five days. 

It is what it is, and his feelings for Harry are what they are, but this would be, very simply and non-negotiably, a completely and absolutely,  _ irrevocably stupid  _ idea.

“A highway?” Harry finally suggests. “Like. Two long lines and then dashes between them?”

“You’re out of your mind,” Louis snips. The words are weak even to his own ears. 

Harry reaches over and grabs Louis’ right hand off the wheel, pulls it over into his own lap. “Sounds about right,” he says with an honest smile. 

Louis keeps his eyes fixed firm on the road, even as he strokes the soft skin between Harry’s index finger and his thumb. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, burning and pouting and terribly insistent, though, and bursts into reluctant laughter after a moment, head bouncing against the headrest.  _ “I’ll think about it!” _ he says, voice firm and eyes warning and body very much shaking with laughter. “I’ll think about it…”

And he does.

For hours.

✘✘✘✘✘

It’s the product of seven days on the road, eight hours alone that day, Louis later thinks, that must have had them all so zoned out, so totally road blind to the changing landscape, that they somehow missed it. 

One second they were passing through their millionth mile of gently sloping cornfields as he contemplated his latest emotional tattoo-oriented dilemma, and the next:

They're out of the midwest, out of the plains, and suddenly confronted by mountains.

Big fucking Coloradan mountains.

Shaken from his inner turmoil, Louis slows the van to a roll and then stops. Everyone sits up in unison.

“There they are,” Louis whispers, nudging Harry. He shakes his head, half awe-struck by the towering peaks in the not-so far off distance, half incredulous that it’s only been days, mere _ days _ since that night that they first met, when Harry had flopped right onto the shag of the Garbage Truck and gasped with excitement at the prospect of seeing the Rockies. 

“There they are,” Harry breathes back, eyes wide, face tilted up, at the grey-blue rock and lush forest encasing their little van.

Niall slides the back door open, and he and Zayn peer out, Liam ooh-ing and ahh-ing right beside them. Without a word, Zayn takes Liam’s (third) joint from his hand, taking a long drag before passing it to Niall. 

“I’ve never seen mountains before,” Niall accepts it, squinting into the distance. “Can’t say I’ve ever even thought ‘bout it.”

“Me neither,” Liam agrees, voice even lower and more syrupy than normal thanks to all the weed. “They’re...big.”

“Very big,” Niall confirms.

“Can I drive?” Harry asks suddenly. “I wanna drive through the mountains.”

Louis hesitates. Harry is the self-proclaimed least enthusiastic driver in the world. “You sure?” Louis checks. “It’ll probably get, like. Super winding, and what not, the farther in we get.”

Harry beams, already hopping out to switch places. “That’s okay,” he says happily, as if he hasn’t spent every other day of this trip coming up with any lame excuse to avoid driving. 

“You’re so weird,” Louis sighs when Harry pops up right outside the driver’s side door and makes silly faces through the glass. “I swear, I don’t even get you sometimes.”

✘✘✘✘✘

The night that they’d met, Harry had claimed that “Liar” was his favorite Queen song, and Louis doesn’t doubt that— he really doesn’t. He’s heard Harry yell,  _ “I have sinned, dear Father. Father, I have sinned,” _ with total enthusiasm more times than he could probably count over the past week. The passion for “Liar” is there; this is a fact.

Privately, however, Louis has always had a sneaking suspicion that Harry was a different level of dramatic at heart. And so, when an hour or so later, as they finally cruise through the first pass, Harry suddenly says, “Okay,” in a hushed voice, as if speaking too loud would shatter this immeasurably precious moment, Louis can’t say he’s terribly surprised by the events that follow.

“Feel free to tell me to fuck off, but—” Harry’s hands are quick as they search through the tape box, closing around a certain multi-colored cassette box within seconds. He holds it up for a moment, considering. The reds and blues and yellows of the cover art are tinted gold under the first rays of the setting sun. 

He nods decisively and carefully slides the tape— side two up— into the stereo, holding the fast forward button down for what feels like ages. The snowy, looming peaks that surround them glimmer proudly. And then:

“ _ Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?  _

_ Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. _

_ Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see…” _

Harry exhales softly.

He’s a fucking drama queen, and Louis thinks his heart might actually explode.

“Good call,” Zayn whispers. “Spot on.”

The rock surrounding them is rosy red, cracked and faded. It twists up beyond the stretches of the windows of the Garbage Truck, and after days of plains and flatlands and nineteen years of hilly east coast forests and nothing more, Louis is glued to the window, totally enraptured by the curving, winding road, horizon framed by a jigsaw of shelves and juts of cliffs and rock. Stretches of trees shoot high into the sky, row after row of green on brown, and Harry’s definitely riding the brakes on the downhills, but that’s fine, for the best even, Louis concedes, as they race past a speed limit sign.

_ “ _ _ Mama,” _ they both yell in unison with Freddie,  _ “Oo-ooh.”  _ Harry hits a curve harder than he probably meant to, and Louis sways with it, shouting,  _ “Didn’t mean to make you cry, if I’m not back again this time tomorrow…”  _ and Harry sings, like  _ actually _ sings,  _ “carry on, carry on... as if nothing really mattered,”  _ and it’s like a very specific dream come true: driving through the mountains with a cute boy, screaming along to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” 

He hears Zayn singing along, and the scent of freshly burned bud, so he snaps his fingers and waits for the joint to be placed into his waiting hand, rolls down the window and loses it with the music, trading off parts with Harry, nearly in hysterics just from Harry’s ultra-commitment to the piece alone.

Halfway through, Louis glances into the rearview mirror, ready to shout because the backseat isn’t singing along  _ nearly _ loud enough, but—  Liam is sitting straight as a board, face sheet white, clinging on to the arm Zayn has wrapped around his shoulders.

_ “Be—ELZE—bub,”  _ Harry bellows, face contorting seriously as if he were actually part of an opera.

“Uh, Harry—” Louis says, alarmed. Liam looks very much not okay, and Zayn makes a wild smoking motion and then quickly feigns gagging.

_ “—has a devil put aside—”  _

“Harry!”

_ “—for me—“ _

“Harry!” Louis repeats, louder.

_ “—for me—”  _

_ “Harry!”  _

_ “—for MEEEE!”  _ Harry absolutely screeches over Freddie’s voice, matching Roger Taylor’s falsetto.

_ “HARRY!” _

Harry stops stock-still, frozen mid head-bang. His hair hangs limply in his face. 

Eyes wide, Louis jerks his head toward Liam, who sits still as a statue in the backseat, eyes shifting, round and white. Harry takes one look into the mirror and immediately makes to pull off onto the shoulder.

_ “So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?”  _ Freddie sings accusingly, the guitars and synths of the ‘rock’ part of the rock opera wailing behind him. Liam stiffens.  _ “So you think you can love me and leave me to die?” _

“Turn it down!” Zayn shouts over the music, miming a volume button.

Louis frantically presses the eject button; Harry puts the van in park, and they both turn quickly in their seats. The silence left in the wake of the music is deafening.

“You okay, Li?” Zayn asks, rubbing Liam’s shoulder soothingly. Liam nods slowly, eyes still the size of quarters. He opens his mouth as if to respond, but no words come out.

The weed, Louis realizes— Liam’s flipping out.

Rationally, he knows Liam’s probably fine, just a little greened out and startled, but shit, there’s nothing worse than a bad high, and there’s definitely something Louis could be doing, but for the life of him he can’t think  _ what _ . All he can think is, shit, shit,  _ shit, _ because he should have  _ known _ better, should never have let him smoke so much, and he’s frozen, just staring helplessly as Liam sits pale-faced and probably on the verge of tears.

Harry, on the other hand, is out of the van in an instant, handing Louis a water bottle as he slides the back door open as if this is nothing worrisome or out of the norm. “He just needs some fresh air,” he announces, heading around the other side to slide that door open as well. “Lay down, Li,” he adds calmly. “Just take a rest, bud.” Without asking, he grabs the water bottle held loosely in Louis’ hands and offers it to Liam. “Take a few sips. Slow— that’s it,” he says softly as Liam reaches for the bottle. “It’s all in your head, man,” he explains, sitting down in the open doorway. “You’re fine. Nothing bad can come from weed. You’re just—” he turns to Louis and shrugs expectantly, as if Louis’ opinion is worth shit in this situation. “Nauseous? Right?”

Louis nods, shaking his head to clear it. Zayn is still sitting as close to Liam as humanly possible, patting his arm and holding the water bottle. Louis thinks it’s a testament to Zayn’s feelings that he doesn’t even comment on the chemical makeup of the water before prodding Liam to take a shaky sip.

It’s probably ridiculous. They all  _ know _ that Liam’s fine, but Louis knows firsthand how scary everything can seem when you’ve smoked just a little too much, let alone on your first fucking time. Shit, between the four of them, Louis, Harry, Zayn, and Niall, they’re all fucking stoners, but—

“Niall,” Harry suddenly says. “Are you— are  _ you  _ okay, man?” 

Louis turns glances over to the back corner of the van where Niall is sitting, and groans quietly.

Niall is not, apparently, okay either, he realizes in horror. In fact, he’s currently border-line hyperventilating with his face in his knees. “Ni..all?” he says awkwardly, totally thrown by the total shift in the last two minutes.

But then Harry’s on Niall in a heartbeat as well, cautiously patting his back and coaxing him to sit up, quietly talking to him and helping him out of the car and onto the pavement, handing him water, and reassuring him softly. Zayn’s still trying to get Liam to relax, and Louis is just _sitting there_ in the passenger’s seat, wide eyed and useless. He doesn’t even have a _clue_ what the fuck is going on with Niall until almost a full five minutes later when Harry manages to ascertain that it has something to do with the mountains.   

“Lou?” 

He starts at the sound of his name. Harry stands up from where he’d been crouched besides Niall. “Do you think they could eat some of your M&M’s?” he asks, combing his hair back behind his ears. “Get their blood sugar up.” Louis nods and rushes to open the glove compartment. “To be honest,” Harry laughs quietly, “I don’t know if that’s even a thing...saw it on the Mary Tyler Moore Show once.” He shrugs like, what can you do? and Louis smiles weakly, tossing three packages Harry’s way, just thankful for something to do.

Niall looks like a complete wreck, sweaty and uncharacteristically quiet.  They’ve only known him for a day or two, but judging by Harry’s equally concerned gaze, Louis would but that he’s not alone in thinking that it’s jarring, just really _ jarring _ to see someone always so casually above it all sit on the gravel pavement of a highway road, looking like they’ve been to hell and back.  He looks worse even than when he’d been trashed or hungover, Louis notes.

It feels like ages before Niall has calmed down enough to talk, and Liam thankfully falls asleep in the end— probably his safest bet at this point.

“I think—” Niall mumbles and takes a small sip of water. “I think I need to just… lay down face first on the carpet ‘til we’re out of these mountains.”

Harry makes a soft noise of understanding and sits back down besides him. “What was— did like— they freaked you out, then? Or—?”

Niall shrugs miserably, and Louis has the sudden urge to just wrap him up in a big hug. He doesn’t, because he isn’t quite sure if that would help himself or Niall more, and his legs still aren’t quite working anyways.

“I don’t…” Niall sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t really like heights or small spaces, I guess. This’s,” he waves his hand awkwardly, “has happened before. Once or twice…”

“Ooh,” Harry hums and nods. “And you just...panicked?”

Niall groans and buries his face in his palm again. “I don’t even know. Yeah, I guess. Fuckin’ stupid. It just— never been in,” he waves his hand again, “the mountains before. I didn’t think—I don’t know,” he trails off, sounding defeated.

Louis swallows and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize,” he offers in a low voice. “Before. Or like. During, or whatever. I was so focused on—” he nods towards the van where Zayn sits listening quietly with Liam’s head in his lap. “So— yeah,” he finishes lamely, feeling like double the shitty friend on both Liam  _ and _ Niall’s behalf.

Niall shakes his head firmly and takes a deep breath, eyes trained firmly on the ground as if he doesn’t dare look back up. Whether it’s to avoid the mountains or their eyes, isn’t clear.

“My friends back home probably would’ve laughed at this shit,” Niall says after a long silence. He glances up from his sneakers. “Or like. Left me to cry it out on my own and  _ then _ made fun of me later.” He chuckles darkly. “Or ignored it completely.”

Louis’ heart sinks a little because isn’t that what he’d done, essentially? Nothing at all? 

Niall kicks at the dirt. “So sorry if this is all mushy or bogus, or whatever, but— thanks,” he says. He nods at each of them in turn, and Louis wants to point out that he hadn’t even done anything— but Niall shrugs and adds, “for even just like. Being there. Thanks for that,” and it’s not just for him, but he looks Louis right in the eye when he says it. “Means a fuckin’ lot.”

They sit for a few more minutes while Niall regains his bearings, and when they finally pile back in together, Louis takes control of the wheel again while Harry settles in besides Niall, who, true to his word, promptly falls face first onto the carpet and doesn’t look up again. 

As they drive away, Louis turns the music back on, albeit at a much, much lower volume.

_ “ _ _ Nothing really matters,” _ Freddies sings gently through the outro. “ _ Anyone can see. Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters to me…”  _

It’s dumb and it’s cheesy, but Louis looks in the rearview mirror, at the four boys cuddled close together in the backseat, at Zayn’s hand on  Liam’s chest, at Harry’s ankles draped over Niall’s legs, and he thinks: not true, Freddie. Not true at all.

They drive into the Coloradan sunset and Louis sings along softly,

_ “Any way the wind blows...” _

✘✘✘✘✘

The windows are half cracked and the cool night air brushes against Louis’ face, an extra step to keep him alert and awake. It must be midnight, or maybe even after, and they’ve just passed the exit for Salt Lake City when Louis pulls off for an oasis that advertises a late-night gas station, knowing he’s due for gas soon.

From his nest in the passenger’s seat, Harry mumbles, “Need to pee,” in the darkness as Louis rolls up to a 24-Hour filling station for the first time in his life, the small parking lot occupied only by semis.

“You’ll have to pee with the truckers,” Louis replies softly, voice rough from disuse. 

“Mmk,” Harry nods, heaving himself up and out of the van with what must be some effort.

He stands with Louis in the bright light of the parking lot, rubbing his eyes sleepily while Louis fills the tank, and the night is peaceful and warm.

When they shuffle into the little convenience store—  _ easily _ the best stocked of the whole trip— Harry immediately heads for the bathroom, and Louis is left puttering around under the fluorescent yellow lights, looking at the eclectic array of food, necessities, and trinkets.

There’s even a small section with a few tapes, and for a moment Louis gets it in his head to buy Liam that Styx tape he’s always going on about, but a quick scan says that even the 24-Hour Mobil on the Utahan stretch of i-70 knows that  _ The Grand Illusion  _ is shit.

When Harry emerges from the bathroom, he looks sleepy and rumpled and painfully adorable.

“Want a lava lamp?” Louis asks with the sort of goofy smile you only get past midnight. He points at a dusty box depicting a long, tapered jar with blue clay and green liquid.

Harry shakes his head and sighs, but he smiles back and it’s the same sort of smile— tired and heavy and tinged with that otherworldly vibe that only comes when you’re where you shouldn’t be, like looking at lava lamps in a gas station at one in the morning.

“No?” Louis giggles. “What about this?” He grabs a mug that reads World’s Best Mom and holds it up proudly, sleepily wondering how it’s possible that even under shitty yellow light Harry manages to look beautiful. “World’s. Best. Mom,” Louis reads carefully, as if Harry couldn’t do it himself.

“Go to hell,” Harry laughs and swipes it from him, setting it back on the shelf besides a mug featuring a cartoon alien.

“It’s true, though,” Louis protests, following him as Harry heads for the door. “You’re like— our  _ mom,” _ he says, and he’s not even joking. “Like today? You took care of Niall and Liam right away. Knew just what to do.” 

Harry clucks over his shoulder and pushes the heavy door open. “Why’s that have to be a mom thing?” he points out heatlessly.

Louis shrugs. “I didn’t see a World’s Best Dad mug. Did you?” Harry shrugs, like,  _ point taken,  _ and Louis punches the air in sleepy, 1 AM victory. “Hold up,” he says, catching Harry’s hand as he makes to pull the door of the van open, presumably to slide into the back with the others. “I need to stretch my legs for a minute,” he says and yawns as he leans up against the side of the Garbage Truck. “Wait with me?”

Harry’s arm relaxes under Louis’ hold, and then he leans into it. Into Louis.

“Kay,” he sighs sleepily, and wraps his arms around Louis’ waist. “Wake me up when you’re ready to go.”

It’s dark and late and they’re hidden ‘round the back of the van. Louis tenses automatically, glancing over his shoulder in fear, but it’s only for a minute. Harry’s warm and soft and wrapped around him, and Louis can’t help but wrap an arm of his own around Harry’s shoulders and inhale, unashamedly basking in the moment.

They’re quiet for a minute, and the only sound is the distant hum of the highway and the intermittent slam of a truck door.

A breeze passes over them, and Harry shivers, burrowing closer into Louis’ side. “You know,” he mumbles suddenly. “I panic over everything.” Louis blinks in the darkness, unsure of what he means. “They probably would have been fine,” Harry adds, voice thick with the late hour. “I just like—I see someone like that and…” he sighs softly and Louis squeezes his arm. “It’s like my mind kicks into overdrive before I’ve even really figured out what was going on.”

Louis smiles ruefully in the darkness. “Not me,” he shakes his head, and they sway in their embrace for a moment, back and forth, calm and easy before Harry shifts, dramatically draping himself over Louis’ back, hands coming up to loop around his neck.

“I know,” Harry agrees. His cheek nestles into the back of Louis’ neck, and he sighs. “You were completely cool. Meanwhile, I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

Louis melts at Harry’s touch and the words that he’s saying, and the moment feels so warm and quiet, so intensely private with the others gone, asleep for once, that when he says, “Yeah, I wish,” and laughs a little, self-deprecatingly, it doesn’t feel awkward or revealing. Just honest. Just Harry. “More like sitting there like a lump on a log, on the verge of fucking flipping out myself.”

“Nuh-uh,” Harry denies. “I think we make a good team.” He presses a sudden kiss to Louis’ neck. It’s chaste and quick and Louis’ knees go weak.

He suddenly wants nothing more than to just lay down with his boy and fall asleep. 

“I’m tired, babe,” he says. “Gonna drive a little bit more and then pull off… don’t wanna sleep with the truckers.”

✘✘✘✘✘

It’s not much later that Louis finds himself wedged once again between Harry and the door, his face dangerously close to Niall’s feet. 

“Can’t believe you didn’t want the World’s Best Mom mug,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, already more than half asleep.

Back pressed close to Louis’ chest, hands tangled together, Harry replies, voice fuzzy, “Wanted the alien one…” and Louis rolls his eyes fondly, pressing his nose into Harry’s hair. 

“Lou?” Harry suddenly whispers.

“Mmhm?”

“Speaking of aliens…” Harry’s words stretch on slow and long. “Do you wanna go down to Area 51?” he asks. “Like…after?”

“What’s Area 51?” Louis mumbles.

“Where the aliens are…” Harry’s says. “Zayn told me…”

“Okay, babe,” Louis whispers absently, eyes falling shut, on the verge of sleep.

It’s not long before Harry’s breath evens out, his chest rising and falling slowly underneath the press of Louis’ hand. Louis’ just about there, too—  _ there, _ really, when—

Louis’ eyes shoot open as he suddenly registers Harry’s words.

_ After. _

 


	9. Chapter 9

**⩶**

**698 Miles To Go**

**⩶**

“Today’s the day!”

It’s the early morning, Louis’ back is now  _ beyond _ kinked and knotted from sleeping sans bed for more than a week, and as he throws open the sliding door with a triumphant bang, he is absolutely positive this is about to be one of the best days of his life.

“Up and at ‘em, gentlemen,” he says loudly, clamoring into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. He’s feeling a little manic for having just woken up, and there’s really no reason for him to have brought everyone else into consciousness along with him— feeble groans and cursing spill from the backseat— but he’s like a kid the night before Christmas, and California is mere hours away.

The rest of the occupants of the Garbage Truck are remarkably less thrilled.

“Fuck  _ off,”  _ Niall groans, and Harry mutters angrily in agreement. 

Louis doesn’t care.

He’s got California on the mind, a less than satisfactory night’s sleep under his belt, and the suggestion of  _ After  _ in his pocket. 

✘✘✘✘✘

Two hours later, the excitement has worn off and Louis is forced to admit defeat. His eyes are heavy, his back is aching, and after driving ‘til 1 AM, the watch on Harry’s wrist claimed it was only 7:30 when he’d woken up this morning. 

Today’s still the day, but California is probably a solid nine hours away, and Louis cannot physically be the one to bring them there.

“Zayn,” he says loudly, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand. “You’re turn.” He pulls off onto the shoulder and flops back against the headrest. Shit, his head hurts.

Zayn mumbles something in response, and Louis cranes his neck to look back just as he sits up. Zayn looks down, blinking sleepily for a moment before apparently deciding that he doesn’t need his vest this morning— at least not while it serves as Liam’s pillow.

Louis catches his eye and nods without a word, slipping out of the front seat and into the back feeling somewhat like a zombie.

Zayn slides into the front, and Louis settles back in besides Harry, leaving a safe distance between them given the dry morning heat.

Harry’s eyes blink open. “You’re back,” he mumbles. 

“I’m back,” Louis agrees, folding his arms under his head.

Harry smiles and his eyes close again. He wiggles in and grabs Louis by the hips, tugging him in close. “Good.”

✘✘✘✘✘

Later, when they’re all finally awake, they drive in comfortable silence punctuated only by whatever’s on the stereo and bits and pieces of jokes, quiet conversation here and there.

“Game,” Louis announces, and proceeds to beat Liam at their fifth straight round of connect the dots. In a surprising twist of fate, it’s the most uneventful day so far.

In the late morning, Niall gives Harry a tiny tattoo of a something that looks like a diamond. “A gem for my sister, Gemma,” he explains as Louis looks on questioningly, and it’s a sharp reminder of Then vs Now, of all the things that Harry hasn’t mentioned, and a life that he hasn’t even  _ hinted _ at, but Louis doesn’t have time to be confused or sad before Harry’ adds, “You’d like her, Lou. Maybe you’ll meet someday.” He smiles easily, hissing when the needle makes its first poke.

Liam crawls into the front seat at some point, of course just to be next to Zayn, and Niall stretches out on his back and tells them all about how little there is to do in Lawton, Iowa. 

“I wonder what Bressie will do about my room,” he muses.

“You’re not going back?” Louis asks, wondering if they’re all on the same open ended wavelength.

Niall shrugs. “Gotta find a  _ way _ to get back, don’t I?” he says, but he doesn’t seem especially concerned. “Gotta see what’s there to do in San Francisco first, I think. Maybe I’ll find something good.” 

Zayn drives, and then Niall, and Liam for a while, and Louis sits in the back, shoulder to shoulder with Harry, hip to hip, hand in hand, and as they watch as Utah melts into Nevada, and gray, green mountains give way to wide plateaus swirling with pearly whites and reddish browns, Louis can't help but hope that Niall's right— that wherever they are and whatever happens, they all end up finding something good.

✘✘✘✘✘

They lost an hour when they crossed from Utah to Nevada, and it’s the height of summer anyways, so the sun hasn’t even begun to set when they cross the state line marked with a huge blue sign reading  _ Welcome to California! _ in bold yellow letters.

Everyone cheers and Harry jokingly sings the chorus of “Hotel California,” in lieu of actually having the tape, and Louis kisses him on the cheek before diving into the passenger’s seat right alongside Niall, sticking his head out the window like a puppy just to get a taste of the California sun. 

Harry grabs him by the ankle, “You’re crushing, Niall!” he laughs and tries to pull him back, but Niall just grins and pretends to smack him on the ass for his trouble. 

_ “Freddie, I’m coming!” _ Louis yells into the wind. 

The map says they’ve still got 150 miles ‘til San Fran, and Harry guesses that’ll be about three or so more hours, but Louis doesn’t care. That’s nothing. Not compared to how far they’ve come.

**⩶**

**San Francisco**

**⩶**

When they finally pass a sign that reads San Francisco: 8 miles, Louis has Liam pull over. 

“I’ve gotta do this myself man,” he says, slamming the driver’s side door shut with overwhelming finality. “I don’t care if it’s lame.”

They have nowhere to go and nowhere to be, so Louis just drives straight and figures they’ll hit the coast sooner rather than later. He doesn’t feel ridiculous in his excitement, and Harry’s there beside him, Louis’ right hand in his lap.

Louis doesn’t say anything when they pull right up to a strip of sand and sea that a series of roads signs have told them is somewhere near San Francisco. He isn’t even sure if they’re in the city or just nearby, but they’re in California and he’s feet away from the ocean and he’s been thinking about this moment for months and months, and suddenly nothing seems like the right thing to say, so, he sits in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, and stares out the window with huge, unblinking eyes until he thinks his chest is so full that he might physically explode.

“We’re here,” he finally says, and a week ago he might’ve said _I’m Here_ , or at the very least thought it immediately, but it’s not just him anymore. He’s not with Stan and Oli, and he’s not alone, and he’s not even just with Harry. And when he looks around, at Liam peering out the window and Zayn stuffing his drawing pad back in his bag, at Niall  cheering _“Fuck yeah!”_ and throwing open the van door, it doesn’t feel like it should be any other way.

Niall’s keeps yelling incoherently, and Zayn is laughing and helping Liam climb out gingerly because his legs have fallen asleep, and they’re all whooping and cheering, and Louis  _ is _ — Like. Emotionally. He  _ is _ . He just— can’t quite connect right now. 

“I’ve just…I’ve just wanted this for a really long time,” he explains quietly when he realizes Harry is watching him from the passenger’s seat. 

Harry smiles and Louis knows without asking that he understands. “Race you to the water?” Harry holds out his hand, and Louis grabs it without a thought.

They slip out of the van and kick off their shoes in an instant, and Louis rolls the bottoms of his jeans up to his knees, and then he just  _ goes— _ starts running, sprinting towards the water. The sand is scratchy and warm under his feet and his laughter trails behind him like a kite; the waterline isn’t far, maybe only twenty five yards or so, but it sort of feels like the end of a marathon that he hadn’t even realized he’d been running.

He stops when his toes hit water, cold and sharp, and Harry crashes into his back seconds later. They stand there together, staring out at a stretch of blue so big Louis feels like he can barely breath with the enormity of it all.

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen the ocean, Lou,” Harry laughs, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Forget we live, like… fifteen minutes from Maquoit Bay?”

“Yeah, but—” he doesn’t turn around, eyes stuck on the waves and foam, tiny pricks of light that might belong to a boat or a lighthouse or a long lost city. There’s mountains or hills or  _ whatever  _ in the distance, surrounding them and rising up out of the indigo water. “This is the  _ Pacific,”  _ he says. “I’ve never seen the Pacific.”

“It’s beautiful.” Harry’s fingers trail the length of Louis’ arm. 

Louis nods after a moment and smiles and lets the water numb his toes. The taste of ocean and salt settle in his nose and on his tongue. 

“Welcome to California, Lou,” Harry says. Louis takes Harry’s hand in his and squeezes.

✘✘✘✘✘

When Louis comes back down to Earth, albeit just barely, they head back up to the Garbage Truck and their friends. Niall is pacing, visibly distressed. 

That’s when Louis realizes that the beach is very much not empty, and they are most definitely not alone. 

Some distance away— far enough that he can’t hear anything other than raucous bubbly laughter and the steady hum of a portable stereo— sit four very giggly, very objectively beautiful women.

Niall is solemn as Louis and Harry approach. “Boys,” he says seriously as soon as they’re within ear shot. “You know I don’t ask for much—”

Louis thinks he already sees where this is going, and he’s still high off ocean air and California in general, so it’s easy to tease, “Yeah, just a lift across the country,” if only to see Niall frown in betrayal.

_ “Hey.  _ Fuck you! That was  _ your _ idea, ass wipe!” Niall flips Louis off.

He takes a deep steadying breath as if he is about to impart some heavy knowledge. “I need your help here, boys,” he says earnestly. “As much as I really thought that I was probably gonna end up fucking a dude on this trip, or something—”

“Wha— _ Is everyone gay?” _ Liam demands in disbelief. 

(Four days ago, Louis might have related. He has since learned that, apparently, yes: the world is much gayer than he had anticipated before leaving Brunswick, Maine. That, or he, Louis Tomlinson, is a magnet for homosexuality. Either is a nice option, he thinks.)

Niall ignores Liam. “There’s a pack of hot chicks out there, men. Four to be exact. Now, I only need one, but that still leaves the other three, and I don’t know how much y’all know about women—” he looks pointedly at Louis as if his homosexuality has prohibited him from ever having so much as interacted with a female. 

Louis feels vaguely offended before he concedes that—  _ well. _ Niall has a point. 

“—but they’re  _ smart,” _ Niall says. “They don’t leave their friends alone for  _ nothing. _ Not that they should,” he adds thoughtfully. “But point being, if I wanna even have a chance with one of ‘em,  _ you all—”  _ he points a figure around at Louis, Harry, Zayn, and Liam individually, “need to help me out.”

Harry looks apprehensive. He glances at Louis out of the corner of his eye before responding. “Um. How?”

“Be my fuckin’ wingmen,” Niall says simply. 

Louis thinks Zayn speaks for all of them when he tiredly says, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

And that’s how, five minutes later, they end up in an awkward semi-circle a safe distance away from Niall as he saunters over to the bonfire not far down the beach. The girls he approaches are long haired and tan and exactly what Louis would have expected a California girl to look like if he had ever really given the matter any thought, and Niall is bold— a much bolder man that Louis could ever be. 

The sky is in that dreamy part of the evening, a mixture of reds and blues and lush purple clouds, and the girls are all still in their swimsuits although it’s starting to get cooler. Louis can tell from the moment Niall opens his mouth and says, “Hey! Wanna play frisbee?” that the boy is gonna need a whole lot more than a little ‘help.’

“Should’a gone a man,” Harry says quietly, and Zayn snickers. 

“So…what are we supposed to do?” Louis asks, amused, watching as a girl with a shoulder-length blonde bob turns to her curly-haired friend. From what he can tell, she doesn’t say anything, which means it’s an eye-conversation. He digs his toes down into the sand and shakes his head. Eye-conversations are never a good thing.

Liam fidgets. “Should we—should we go talk to’ em? My girlfriend always liked it when I talked to her.”

Louis can’t help but snort. “Yes, Lima,” he agrees. “I’m sure you’re girlfriend was always very appreciative when you decided to interact with her verbally. Quite the ladies man, aren’t you?”

“Go ahead then,” Zayn prods Liam, and Louis is impressed because, careful teasing? That’s new. ”Go talk to them, Li,” he smirks.

“Should we come up with a game plan?” Harry suggests. “Like. There’s four of us and three of them— not counting whoever Niall shoots for. Should we...divide and conquer?” He makes a face even as the words leave his mouth. “That sounds incredibly creepy, sorry. Let me rephrase—”

“What is the most effective way that we,” Louis gestures to the four of them, “as wingmen, should try to talk up each of these women in order to create the best possible environment for our good friend to flirt with a girl?” he suggests. 

Harry points and nods. “Thank you.”

“Okay, so we definitely need to divide and conquer,” Louis says immediately. “Because I don’t think I could convince a woman I’m straight all on my own.” Zayn and Liam are staring at him, but fuck them. “I’m just being honest,” he says, eyes widening defensively.

“Stick with me,” Harry says, and Louis rolls his eyes because— what the hell does  _ Harry _ know about girls, either? But then Harry is gesturing with head towards the bonfire, and there’s not much anyone can do but follow in his path.

Niall is sitting on a log beside a girl with dark, curly hair, who, in Louis’ irrelevant opinion, looks a little bit awkward. “Hey, guys!” Niall greets them as they approach, and Louis doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Niall’s voice seems pitched a little lower than normal. 

Louis is expecting for them to all sit down, maybe just make some small talk while Niall does what he can, but Harry, it appears, has a different plan in mind.

“Hi!” Harry says politely, holding his hand out to a small girl with light brown hair. “I’m Harry. I like your—” He abruptly pauses. “…Bikini?” he offers with a tentative smile. Louis nods in encouragement. Harry sees this and adds, “It’s very flowery!”

Louis stifles a sigh. Overkill. Maybe he’d underestimated his own skills with women. 

The girl considers Harry’s hand, which is still outstretched, and looks up at him with big, doe-like eyes before taking it. “Um. Thanks?” she says, shaking it lightly. “I’m Jade… this is Perrie—” the blonde girl waves. “And Jesy—” the brunette next to Jade wiggles her fingers. “And that’s Leigh-Anne,” she points at the girl closest to Niall.

Harry nods at each girl with a smile and then proceeds to sit down, turn directly to Jade again, and ask, “So. Are you all single?” with a bright enthusiasm that could only be held by a gay man conscious of the fact that he will remain unimpacted by the answer.

Jesy opens her mouth and looks like she’s about to respond when she suddenly yelps and looks to Perrie, directly to her right. 

Perrie just smiles sweetly. “Yep!” she says and tucks a piece of blonde hair behind her ears, crossing her legs. “Where you guys from?” Her voice is lilting and drawn out, and Louis never really thought of Californians as having an accent, but there’s something in her voice that sounds fundamentally West Coast, he thinks.

“All over!” Niall cuts in enthusiastically. He turns to Leigh-Anne and tells her, “We’re on a roadtrip, you know? Just met a couple days ago.” The way he says it clearly indicates that he thinks this is a Very Cool and Very Interesting thing, but Leigh-Anne’s bored smile says otherwise.

Perrie, on the other hand, turns her whole body towards Zayn and  _ oohs. _ “That’s sweet! Where are  _ you  _ from?” She pats the seat beside her on the log. Louis thinks she might even flutter her eyelashes a little bit.

Zayn looks startled at being singled out, but sits down beside her so that it’s him, Perrie, Leigh-Anne, and then Niall, all in a little row. “...Miami,” he says after a moment, as if he has to think about it. 

Perrie gasps again.  _ “Wow!  _ I’ve always wanted to go to Florida. That’s so cool!”

Suddenly, Leigh-Anne sits up a little. “That’s your van, right?” she asks, pointing to the Garbage Truck.

“Sure is!” Niall grins. It’s more than a little suggestive. Louis has to actually look away.

“Huh…” she replies. “So…” And it’s like her entire demeanor changes; she sits up a little straighter. Scooches in a little closer. “You drove that thing all the way from...Miami?” she asks Niall pleasantly.

Niall laughs and runs a hand through his hair in a way that almost looks cool. “Nah. Those two,” he points at Louis, who is still just sort of hovering, and Harry, still seated besides Jade, “drove all the way from Maine. They just found me in Iowa.”

Louis watches as Jesy and Jade exchange a small smile. “And what?” Jesy asks. “You just...drove here with your car and the clothes on your back?”

“And a load of weed,” Zayn adds casually.

Louis’ eyes narrow as he looks around the fire. Leigh-Anne is next to Niall, but her ankle is hooked around Perrie’s, and Perrie has one hand on Zayn’s arm, but the other is on the log, remarkably close to Leigh-Anne’s thigh. 

“You’ve got weed?” Perrie asks interestedly, nearly tucking herself into Zayn’s side. 

Zayn glances down to where their thighs meet and then quickly back up at Liam, eyes wide. “Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking uncharacteristically when Perrie suddenly reaches up to tuck her fingers around the flap of his fest, knuckles brushing over his bare chest. “Right… Liam?” he adds. 

Liam nods wordlessly, eyes fixated on Perrie’s hand. 

“I’ll— I’ll go roll us a joint, then,” Zayn announces, standing up so quickly that Perrie teeters a little on the log. 

Louis watches him scurry off, a little bemused, and when he turns back to the group again, Harry catches his eye and winks. Louis frowns, but then Harry’s already clapping his hands together.

“So, ladies,” he says, which Louis automatically knows will lead to nothing good. “This is our first night in California. What should we do?” 

None of the girls reply for a long moment, but they all look around at each other, and Louis has the distinct feeling that another eye-conversation is taking place right before them. It’s Jade that finally replies, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “...do you have swimsuits?” 

Niall responds with enthusiasm. “We’ve got underwear, if that’s okay?”

Remarkably, none of the girl’s seem terribly put-off by this suggestion. Leigh-Anne and Perrie giggle privately together, and without further ado, Jesy and Jade trot off to the water, calling for the others to follow after them.  

Harry and Niall quickly strip to just their briefs without a thought, and Harry gives Niall a good look up and down. “You look good, man,” he says. “Go get her.” Niall gives him a two finger salute and then the bird, and runs down the beach and after the girls. 

Harry turns to Louis and Liam then, Zayn approaching with joint, lighter, and baggie in hand. “For Niall?” Harry confirms, hands on his hips, completely unembarrassed, as usual, to be less than clothed.

Louis sighs and unbuttons his jeans. “For Niall.” Liam looks a little more hesitant, but Zayn leans in and whispers something right in his ear, and Liam blushes fiercely before kicking his jeans and shirt off as well.

As a team, the four of them make their way down to the water.

“To be frank,” Louis says quietly as they walk, feet sinking into the sand. “It’s not the girls that bother me.” He watches as Niall runs waist-deep into the water. “I just  _ know _ that it’s going to be crazy fucking cold.” Everybody murmurs in agreement. 

Niall shrieks. “ _ Fuck! _ It’s like ice!”

Louis sighs. The things he does for his friends.

As they approach the water, however, and the sand gets damp and sticky under their feet, he can’t help but start to smile a little in anticipation. It  _ is _ the Pacific Ocean, after all.

Harry notices and knocks his elbow. “Ready to lose your Pacific virginity?” he asks, and in between worries of cold water and confusion over his wingman duties, Louis finds the brain capacity to note that Harry looks good like this, with the ocean humidity frizzing out his hair and the setting sun painting him in gold. It helps that he’s in his underwear, of course, but Louis takes that as a given.

“Just promise you won’t let a shark eat me,” Louis laughs, and he’s only half serious.

When they’re finally within feet of the tide, Louis just  _ goes _ for it, refusing to let himself hesitate because, fuck, it’s going to be terrible either way, but if there’s one way to enter the Pacific for the first time ever, screaming hysterically while running in his underwear seems like one of the more memorable ways to do it.

The water is somehow even colder than expected— icy would probably be the best way to describe it— and Louis doesn’t really know what he’d been expecting, but it doesn’t  _ feel _ any different than the Atlantic, so—

Without warning, his legs are pulled out from underneath him, and he falls, waist, then chest, then face totally submerging. Salt fills his mouth, and he springs to the surface, only to have a wave hit him in the knees and sending him stumbling again.

“The  _ fuck!” _ he yelps, pushing his hair out of his eyes and off his forehead. He wheels around, and finds Harry, crouched low in the water with a mischievous smile.

“You alright, Lou?” he asks innocently. His chest is wet and his hair is wet and he seems totally unbothered.

Louis spits, trying to rid his mouth of the overpowering taste of salt. “I hate you,” he announces.

Harry looks appropriately shocked.  _ “Me?”  _ A shiny, wet hand splays across his chest, right between his nipples. His very dark, very hard, nipples. “Must’ve been a shark.”

Just then, Niall calls out, “Hey! Fuckers, come here, Leigh-Anne says we should play Marco Polo— boys versus girls.” 

Harry stands up and water cascades down his thighs. His briefs are soaked and clinging to every bit of his soft, soft hips, and it’s Louis turn to sink into the water because ocean-soaked Harry, proudly standing around in a pair of striped briefs that leave absolutely  _ nothing _ to the imagination, is not something he can physiologically deal with without a little cold water. 

Harry smiles like he knows  _ exactly _ what Louis’ thinking, and then says in a voice quiet enough so that the others don’t hear, “Flirting competition? Winner gets…” He pauses and smacks his lips, thinking. “A blow job.” Louis’ life flashes before his eyes, and Harry splashes away.

One. Two. Three deep breaths.

Louis pulls himself together and wades over to the others.

“Boys versus girls?” Harry asks, shaking out his hair. “I’ve got a better idea…” He sinks down so that the water comes up to his chest. “Let’s do it in pairs,” he suggests. “Perrie and Zayn. Leigh-Anne and Niall.” He turns and winks at Louis. “Louis, Liam and Jesy?” He turns back to Jade and cocks his head a little. “I think we’d make a  _ great _ team. Just sayin’.”

Harry’s trying to use his flirting voice— like, he legitimately has one. Louis has heard it too many times to count. It’s deep and leading and just a little bit laughing, but  _ this,  _ whatever it is that Harry’s trying to do? This isn’t it. And if firsthand experience didn’t tell Louis otherwise, he’d probably think Harry was the worst flirt in history.

This is good news for Louis. Very good news.

He turns to Jesy. “What do you say?” he smiles, gesturing between himself and Liam, who stands next to Zayn, arms crossed against his chest, shivering. 

“Okay,” she agrees, glancing over to Jade and giggling a little. 

“You boys close your eyes first then,” Leigh-Anne decides. “And we’ll scatter.” 

It’s quiet bar some muffled giggling and the sounds of soft splashing as the girls move about, and Louis can’t lie, he’s a little hesitant to shut his eyes while standing in the ocean, but he does it anyways and passes the moments that Niall spends counting to ten wondering how the hell he’s going to flirt his way to a blow job.

_ “Eight…nine…ten!” _

When Louis opens his eyes, Jesy is gone. He turns in a little circle, but—

They’re  _ all _ gone.

_ The girls are all gone. _

He looks to Zayn, who seems equally confused. “Where’d they—” 

And then Niall gasps, pointing at the beach. 

The girls are back on the shore— right by the fire as a matter of fact. Leigh-Anne has a bundle of something in her arms, and Perrie is laughing hysterically, pointing out at the water and at the boys’ undoubtedly shocked expressions.

“Wrong team, boys!” Jade yells over her shoulder, hand in hand with Jesy as all four girls run towards a Ford Pinto parked not far off. Jesy slips in the front seat and starts the car, and against the silhouette of the headlights, they watch as Perrie pulls Leigh-Anne into a kiss, going so far as to actually dip her backwards. A collective gasp runs amongst the boys. 

The girls scream with laughter as they pile into the car, and just like that: they’re gone.

“I’m a gay magnet,” Louis says, stunned.

“What?” Harry asks.

Louis’ reeling. “I’m a—” He stops and sighs. It’s dark out and they’re all in their briefs, standing shivering in the Pacific Ocean, utterly confused. He lacks the strength to explain this one at the current moment. “Never mind.”

“Well, that was fuckin’ pointless,” Niall grumbles as they wade back up to the beach. “They could’ve just said that to begin with.”

Louis shakes his head. “You know, I had a sneaking suspicion something was off. That girl was  _ way _ too into Harry for it to have been real.  _ I think we’d make a greaaaat team,” _ Louis mocks, splashing Harry a little as they walk. Harry splashes him right back, and then suddenly they’re locked in a splash war, and the other boys take off running to get out of the line of fire.

“You’re a terrible flirt,” Louis accuses him. 

“And you were any better?” Harry gasps, outraged. “Mr. Stand In Silence?”

Louis splashes Harry particularly hard, soaking him head to toe. “I was just about to lay it on thick,” he sniffs. “You should’ve seen me.”

Harry stops splashing and takes a step forward, and then another. He smirks, hands coming down in preparation to smack yet again. “Let’s just say I wasn’t trying very—” 

Yelling and shouting on the beach, audible even from the water, cut off the end of this sentence.

“They took the weed!” Louis hears Zayn gasp, and then Liam’s spinning around, as well, eyes scanning the ground fruitlessly. “They took our clothes!” he shouts.

“What?” Harry calls out, but Louis is already running because  _ the weed?  _ Really?

The expressions he encounters when he makes it to the fire are ones of mourning and loss. Niall is sitting on a log, chin in his hands as Liam paces about in his underwear, as if convinced his jeans are about to miraculously appear. Zayn and Louis share a look of deep understanding: it’s gone. The weed is gone.

“But…why?” Harry asks, dumbstruck. “Why would they take our clothes? Like…the weed. Okay. I get that. But…”

Niall shakes his head sadly, and Louis echoes Harry’s declaration from earlier, “Should’ve gone a man, man,” and takes a seat on the sand.

The weed-theft hurts the most, is the thing. The clothes they can deal with, Louis thinks. Louis has three t-shirts in his bag, and he knows for a fact that Liam and Niall have some as well. And surely, they have an extra pair of jeans each. Which— Louis grimaces— definitely still leaves at least three people pants-less.

“Guys,” he says softly. “Guys…I don’t think we have enough pants to go around.”

For a long time, no one responds.

And then Liam finally says, “Well…at least they didn’t take our underwear.”

The laughter starts with Zayn, just a chuckle and sigh, but then Harry’s giggling, and Niall’s following suit, and Louis just shakes his head and puts his head between his knees, just laughing at the sheer stupidity of the situation. 

“This is terrible,” he says, and he really means it. They’re sopping wet and sandy, sitting on a beach somewhere near San Francisco with only their underwear and only enough clothing to full fit, hopefully, two people.

“You know,” Zayn says after a moment, Niall nearly in tears beside him from laughing so hard. “I’ve never gotten my clothes stolen before,” he says thoughtfully. “Stolen some clothes— from a thrift shop I worked in for a few days,” he shrugs with a smile when Liam’s eyes bulge. “It’s okay!” he reassures him. “It was in Arkansas. I left a drawing of Jimmy Carter as payment.” He props himself up, elbows on his knees. “I’ve just got to say—if I had to have my clothes stolen—”

_ “And _ your weed stolen,” Louis reminds him.

Zayn shrugs. “That too, I guess. Either way… if I had to have my shit stolen,” he smiles sincerely. “I’m glad it was with you guys.”

“Aw, Zaynie,” Harry coos, reaching over to pinch Zayn’s cheek. “That’s so sweet!”

Zayn bats his hand away, laughing. “Fuck off. I’ve met a lot of people on the road is all,” he explains, “and most of them are shit after a few days.” He probably thinks he’s being subtle when he smiles right at Liam and says, “I don’t think I’ll forget you all in a hurry.” 

It’s an odd moment when Louis realizes that, fuck— he might actually miss Zayn when this is all over.

“Guys,” Niall suddenly starts chuckling again. He covers his eyes with his hands, the laughter coming harder. “Guys, we are  _ so. fucking. screwed.” _

Louis shrugs and lets himself flop off the log and into the sand. It’s more comfortable that way. “So what else is new?” he points out. “That’s been like— the fucking  _ mantra _ of this trip. _ ‘Oh shit, we’re screwed.’” _

“We should all get that tattooed” Harry says, clearly joking, and then there’s the sound of him slapping his palms on his thighs. “Wait. You know what?” Louis blinks up at him, and Harry’s face is serious, like he’s just had a great thought. “We should actually do that.” He looks around. “Like— all of us. Get a little screw tattoo. Like. In commemoration or some shit.”

“Sure,” Zayn agrees immediately, and Niall nods as well.

“Liam?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. “Louis?”

Louis lets his head flop back against the sand again. “Fuck,” he says. “That’s actually— that’s actually a fucking good idea,” he admits. But then he thinks about the needle/pencil, and he hesitates because, honestly, a blood infection isn’t really his idea of a good time.

But Harry cheers, and he’s beaming, dimples out and all, and Louis feels the last shreds of his resolve crumble. It  _ is _ a pretty funny idea.

“Liam?” he asks, because if Liam is in, Louis is  _ definitely  _ in. 

Liam shrugs and smiles. He looks about as nervous as Louis feels. “Okay…” he says slowly. “Okay. Why not?”

✘✘✘✘✘

In the end, they settle on a small x, right on their ankle bones, because Niall is smart enough to admit that he’s sort of a shitty artist and the idea of five identical screws is probably beyond his reach. “It’s like…the top of the screw,” he reasons, waving the needle/pencil around as he speaks, as if he isn’t afraid of germs or sand or general contamination.

“Right,” Harry agrees, peering down at the little black x. “Like the screw is literally  _ screwed in.” _ Even Louis has to admit it looks pretty cool.

Niall reaches for a new needle and grins. “Alright. Who's next?”

Louis volunteers, just to get it over with, and he’s definitely shaking as he sits down, propping his foot up on the log for Niall to clean, but without a word, Harry plops down beside him with a reassuring smile, and grabs his hand, giving it a squeeze.

The last thing Louis says before the needle makes contact with his skin is, “My mother’s gonna fucking murder me.”

It doesn’t hurt. Well. Barely, he thinks. More of a sting than anything else, but it’s bearable. The whole thing is over within fifteen minutes, and when it’s finished there’s a tiny black x just  _ there,  _ like,  _ forever, _ but…it’s not as scary as he’d thought, and he doesn’t regret it. He thinks for a second, searching for any signs of panic, but there are none. Instead there’s just a gentle buzz in his stomach and a smile on his face as the others get theirs—Liam yelping in pain, Zayn watching the needle with fascination, Niall mumbling and grumbling that he can’t get the right angle on his own until Harry finally just grabs the needle/pencil and does it himself— it just grows and grows and grows.

When it’s over, they all scooch close together to examine the damage: five identical screws, jet black on skin tinted yellowy-orange from the fire.

“I now pronounce us bonded for life,” Niall announces solemnly, and it’s supposed to be stupid, but it doesn’t… it doesn’t come off that way. And that’s okay, Louis thinks. This was okay.

This was a good idea.

✘✘✘✘✘

They sit on the logs and feed driftwood and branches to the fire, and they’re still in their underwear, but everyone’s still sort of damp and sandy, so the idea of putting on a shirt— or even one of the two pairs of jeans left— sounds terrible, so nobody even bothers.

Niall tries to tell them a ghost story and it’s genuinely horrible, and Liam poses for Zayn, thinking it’ll be a nice drawing, when it’s really a truly hilarious caricature. Louis moves the Garbage Truck closer to the fire, and they just let the radio play, the sounds of music and the ocean mingling in the darkness. Harry sits by Louis’ side, and then at some point ends up between his legs, back to Louis’ chest.

It’s late when it happens, the moment that really solidifies everything for Louis, late enough that there’s absolutely no color in the sky, just black and the moon and stars that are probably just airplanes.

The moment begins when a familiar, twinkling piano melody suddenly fills the air, and Liam stands up so quickly that he stumbles in the sand as he rights himself, eyes huge. “It’s—” he gasps, frozen in place, as if now that he’s on his feet he doesn’t even know what to do. 

“…Yes?” Louis asks, concerned. Liam looks like he might be on the verge of fainting— or possibly wetting himself.

“It’s—it’s—” Liam repeats, and a huge grin blooms across his face. He turns on the spot and runs for the Garbage Truck, slipping a little in the sand again. He throws his upper body into the van, one leg flailing in the air for leverage as he grabs for the volume knob. The piano melody blasts out at full volume. He pulls himself back out of the van, and with the purest, happiest grin, he shouts, “It’s  _ STYX!” _

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Louis says, watching in awe as Liam claps his hands together, the picture of pure elation. 

The piano continues, and, sure enough, Louis can place it now: it’s the over-stuffed, over-played, over-reaching intro to “Come Sail Away.” From across the fire, Niall cackles and Zayn shakes his head fondly. 

With a light in his eyes that Louis has never seen before, Liam turns to them, arms spread wide, and belts in a voice  _ totally _ beyond Louis’ expectations,  _ “I’m sailing away!”  _

Harry gasps.

“ _ Set an open course for the virgin sea. ‘Cause, I’ve got to be free. Free to face the life that's ahead of me.” _

In the briefest of spaces between the moment in which Louis fully registers Liam’s apparently incredible singing capacity and the moment in which he thinks to himself,  _ if I ran very quickly, I could probably get away _ , Niall jumps to his feet and sings, complete with dramatic, matching hand motions, _ “On board I’m the captain, so climb aboard.” _

Liam cheers.  _ “We’ll search for tomorrow on every shore,”  _ he mimes back, hand on his brow as he pretends to look high and low. It’s cheesy and ridiculous, and completely out of character… but  _ also,  _ Louis realizes, head cocked in fascination, maybe that’s not entirely true. 

Maybe he was never just given the chance.

In unison, they sing— or well, Liam sings. Niall just shouts—  _ “And I'll try, oh Lord, I'll try…to carry on!” _

For a beat, nobody moves— not Louis, nor Harry, nor Zayn.

And then Harry laughs loudly and grabs Louis by the hand, dragging him to his feet without a second thought.

_ “I look to the sea,”  _ Harry sings right at Louis when the verse starts back up. He’s beaming and giggling and comically earnest, and a few loose curls have escaped from his bun; they shake in his face, frizzy and knotty from the saltwater and humidity.  _ “Reflections in the waves spark my memory.”  _ It’s loud and a little off-key, and Louis’ starts laughing and he can’t stop, suddenly feeling more than a little slap-happy. 

“Sing, Lou!” Harry commands before spinning himself once like a ballerina under Louis’ hand. 

Louis crosses his arms obstinately, still giggling.

“No way,” he says and rolls his eyes at the way Liam turns in a slow, dramatic circle as he sings.

_ “Some happy, some sad—I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had.” _

Harry suddenly grabs Louis by the waist and hauls him in close, so they’re pressed chest to chest. “Why are you always like this?” Harry demands, eyes full of laughter. “You’re always humming in the car—  _ I’ve heard you!” _ he insists when Louis fixes him with a searing glare. “You know like…” Harry throws his hands in the air in apparent despair. “Every song  _ ever _ . Yet, trying to get you to sing or dance— even just a little?” Louis sighs dramatically, and Harry shakes his head in fond disbelief. “See,” he points out. “Like pulling teeth. Every time!”

“Let me be,” Louis laughs, pushing weakly against Harry’s chest. “Go sing by yourself, Styles.”

Harry grins like the Cheshire cat. He shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving Louis’. “Nuh uh,” he says menacingly. Louis glares as if it to say, whatever it is: _ don’t you dare.  _ “I know what you want.” Harry says. He stops his gentle swaying and pokes a finger right in the center of Louis’ chest. “You want to scream,” he whispers. “And shout.” He leans in close enough to bop noses. “And sing a little Styx.” 

Louis grins and shakes his head, knowing that he’s fooling absolutely no one.

Harry pulls away and regards Louis shrewdly, grin tapering down to a smug smile. “You always do in the end, and  _ you know it!”  _ He leans in again, resting his forehead against Louis’, so close that their eyelashes just barely touch. Louis has to swallow, blinking a few times just to feel the way Harry’s lashes sweep against his. 

“C’mon,” Harry says sweetly. “Skip the nonsense, Lou.” Louis makes a huffing noise, but he can’t keep his lips from perking up at the corners. “Make it a little easier on me this time?”

Louis lets his head tip back, eyes falling closed for a moment before opening up to the inky blue sky. He lets out another defeated sigh. He’s just playing around, and he knows that _Harry_ knows that he’s just playing around, and Louis swears he can physically feel his heart swelling.

Harry’s right, after all: Louis always gets there in the end. He would’ve even gotten there on his own this time, he thinks, if it hadn’t been for this dimpling boy and the way he looks when he begs.

He lets Harry wait in anticipation just a moment longer, just to admire the way he licks his lips and blinks expectantly, and then Louis takes a deep breath and lowers his head. From somewhere behind the, he hears Liam bellow,  _ “But we'll try best that we can…” _

Louis looks Harry straight in the eye and, at the top of his lungs, he shouts, “ _ to Carryyyyyy On!” _

And all at once, everyone comes alive.

Niall and Liam have matching air guitars, and they’re back to back, miming along, and Liam’s got a grin on his face, eyes closed as he bangs his head in time with the music. It’s the kind of grin that’s wide and unbelieving and clearly says he’s just waiting to wake up in his bed back in Missouri, and Niall’s matching him inch by inch, throwing his head back and forth as his fingers fly up the neck of an invisible guitar. Zayn’s on his back, sprawled out on the sand, yelling up into the sky, and if that’s not evidence that they’re all just hysterical, Louis doesn’t know what is. 

Harry’s not only got an air mic, but also an air mic  _ stand, _ which is probably the least surprising, most endearing thing Louis has ever seen. He pretends to toss a mic to Louis, and Louis winks and catches it without hesitation.

One hand wrapped around his “mic”, the other striking a pose straight up in the air, Louis closes his eyes for dramatic effect and sings along as loudly as he can.

_ “A gathering of angels appeared above my head. They sang to me this song of hope, and this is what they said!” _

And then everyone’s jumping and pointing, and they don’t sound  _ good _ , but that’s not the point, it’s actually far, far besides the point, because they might not sound good, but they sure as hell sound happy. 

_ “They said: Come sail away. Come sail away _

_ Come sail away with me _

_ Come sail away. Come sail away _

_ Come sail away with me” _

It’s singing in the car with Harry and Zayn, back on the second or third day. It’s that bar back in Iowa. It’s Boston and “More than a Feeling” and the uncontrollable need to yell and shout and scream, except it’s more and it’s better because they aren’t in a bar and they aren’t drunk and they’re not surrounded by assholes. They’re not in a van and there’s no one coaxing Louis to dance because he’s already there and he’s already doing it.

It’s just them— just the five of them— the ocean and the moon.

Liam’s dancing too close to the fire and Zayn’s grabbing at his hand; Harry’s pulling Niall towards him, and they’re attempting some sort of a waltz, and Louis is laughing, just laughing and singing and jumping and he never wants to stop because he doesn't know if anything, or anywhere, or anyone will feel this right ever again.

_ “Come sail away,”  _ Louis jumps on Zayn’s back, and Zayn yelps in surprise, hands flying back to grab Louis’ legs,  _ “Come sail away. Come sail away with me!”  _ he shouts, and then Harry’s choking on his laughter and grabbing at Louis’ flailing hand, trying to pull him off Zayn. Louis goes a little too willingly, and he collapses back into the sand, crashing into Harry’s chest and bringing him down with him into the sand.

That terrible, cliche instrumental interlude starts, and Louis rolls over onto his stomach to look at Harry, stretched out on his back on the sand. He’s still laughing, but he’s also groaning from the fall, and clutching onto Louis’ arm like a lifeline. He watches Louis, head laid back, hair full of sand, and he’s panting and grinning, and there’s a curl stuck to his forehead and Louis doesn’t know if it’s from the water or sweat, but it’s beautiful. 

He looks beautiful. 

Harry opens his mouth, and for a second Louis expects him to say something profound, or at the very least meaningful, but he just looks Louis right in the eye and makes little laser noises, right along with the music. “ _ Pew, pew, pew, pew, p—” _

Louis cracks.

He lunges for Harry, grabbing those pink cheeks between his palms, and he lays a kiss right on his lips— the kind of kiss that  _ smacks _ when it happens and  _ smacks _ when it’s over.

Louis leans back, and Harry’s frozen, mouth exactly how Louis had left it. 

It probably turned a valve that shouldn’t have been opened, getting that stupid little screw, but Louis doesn’t even care— doesn’t know why he ever cared at all— because right here with the highway behind them and the sand between his toes, with the best friends he’s ever had around him and a roaring fire in front of him, nothing makes more sense than what he’s about to do. 

He looks at Harry and, without even taking a breath, Louis says, “Let’s do it. Let’s get a tattoo.”

Harry’s eyes bulge and then light up, and he sits up, grinning like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Louis rushes on, the words itching to fall from his mouth, true and uncensored.

“It’s just—I,” he fumbles, searching for a way to explain what he’s feeling. “Even if I never see you again—”

But it’s Harry’s turn to cut him off. “I’ll always be the most important person you’ll ever meet?” Harry finishes for him. “Crazy as it sounds?”

Louis’ mouth snaps shut, and he nods, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, nodding fervently. “Yeah. Same here.”

“Let’s do it,” Louis repeats, dazed.

“Let’s do it,” Harry agrees. He grabs Louis’ hand and pulls them both to their feet, turning to Niall. “We want a tattoo,” he announces, and it feels like something else, something bigger, but it’s just a tattoo, just some ink and a needle and a California beach.

“Yeah, so we heard,” Niall smirks. “We’re not deaf, you idiots.”

Harry ignores him and turns to Louis again. He’s glowing, Louis thinks. It’s the fire— it has to be the fire—but he’s glowing all the same. “What should we get?” Harry asks.

Louis doesn’t even pause. “An H,” he says. I want you with me forever, he thinks.

Harry doesn’t question it, just nods decisively, and turns to Niall again. “An H and an L,” he says.

Niall makes a face. “That’s fuckin’ sappy.”

Louis opens his mouth to defend himself, but the verse kicks back in, and Harry’s singing again, and he finds that he’d much rather watch that— finds that it’s downright impossible  _ not _ to watch that. He watches as Harry struts over to Liam, and he has a feeling that Harry probably thinks he looks like a rockstar, rather than the baby giraffe just learning to walk that he is, and that’s just even better and infinitely more fitting.

_ “I thought that they were angels, but, to my surprise, they climbed aboard their starship and headed for the skies.” _

Louis pulls Zayn to his feet and wraps an arm around his shoulder. All together, they yell,  _ “Come sail away. Come sail away. Come sail away with me,”  _ and Niall shouts the  _ “lads!” _ over all the rest of the them, and Louis can barely breathe he’s laughing so hard as he yells, and Harry’s  dancing over, getting up right up in his face.

His arms are flailing, punching the air, and Louis can barely think, can barely formulate the words, even just to himself. But as he stares at Harry dancing wildly, hair flying around, eyes bright, all he feels is love and disbelief and something probably akin to total, exhausting ecstasy. 

_ “Come sail away. Come sail away. Come sail away with me.” _

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis registers Liam and Zayn, pressed close together. He wants to look, wants to check if  _ it _ has finally started, but he can’t quite convince himself to turn from Harry. Judging by the whoop he hears from Niall, though, he thinks that maybe, just maybe,  _ something _ there has finally happened.

And then Niall’s suddenly barreling into them, pushing them all together, and they jump and shout as one. 

_ “Come sail away. Come sail away. Come sail away with me.” _

Okay, Louis thinks wildly. Okay. Let’s go.

Niall starts doing this rowing motion, like he’s on a boat, like he’s literally sailing away, and it’s so fucking stupid, literally the worst dance move ever, but in the moment, Louis just cackles hysterically and joins right in, and soon enough they’re out there like idiots, all five of them pretending to row little boats as the jump around a bonfire and scream to Styx.

Louis’ sandy and damp and a group of Californian lesbians took his clothes and stole his weed. He has his first tattoo on his ankle, and another one on the way, and when Harry looks at him, between the mass of arms and hair and bodies that are the three other strangers that Louis now calls friends, Harry grins, and all Louis can do is grin right back.

✘✘✘✘✘

A half hour later, Harry has a little L in the center of right wrist and Louis has an H in the center of his left.

The mantra still holds: he’s totally screwed.

✘✘✘✘✘

They aren’t subtle when they slip off down the beach together “in search of more driftwood,” but Louis knows by now that no one gives a shit—that Niall would probably cheer them on, to be honest— but there’s still an embarrassed twinge in his stomach as Harry takes his hand and they wander into the darkness. 

When they’ve walked far enough in silence that there’s really no reason to go further, Louis stops and turns, asking the question that’s been running through his mind on excited, anticipatory repeat for the past ten minutes.

“So…who lost?” he finally forces himself to ask, and his voice sounds nowhere close to nonchalant. He’s nervous, but the good kind of nervous. They’ve got matching tattoos now, and Harry said Louis will be in his life forever, and that’s equal parts overwhelming and terrifying, even if he  _ still _ isn’t sure what that means.

Harry smirks, immediately picking up on what Louis’s implying. “Well…” he says playfully, tapping his chin. “I  _ was _ the only one to actually  _ flirt, _ I think. Isn’t that an automatic win?” He’s teasing, Louis realizes in relief, and it’s like all the tension just seeps away. 

“Yeah, but you were fucking terrible at it,” Louis points out.

Harry winks. “…Maybe that was the point,” he says slowly, and that…takes Louis a moment to understand, but when he does his stomach drops to his feet.

“You threw the competition!” Louis accuses, because it’s easier to keep this all lighthearted and joking, especially as his stomach turns to knots. 

Harry smiles, and it’s surprisingly bashful. “Yeah, well…”

Louis narrows his eyes and can hardly believe the next words to come out of his mouth. “So what?” he says, smirking. “You were just gunning to…” he loses steam, unable to finish the jab as intended. “Blow me…?” he finishes weakly. His voice cracks a little, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed. This is a very big revelation. Gargantuan. Life changing. Historic, even.

Harry just smiles and shrugs noncommittally, arms raising up, and Louis can see the little L on his wrist in the moonlight.

Louis feels his face flame and his cock begin to fill, and it’s as if his body isn’t sure where to send all the blood. “O…kay,” he swallows. 

Harry closes the gap between them, and then they’re kissing, soft and gentle, and Louis’ hands circle around Harry’s neck like it’s instinct just to grab him, to press them as close together as possible.

He can feel Harry’s chest heaving, and his own heart is pounding, and the kiss turns deep before Louis thinks that either of them have even realized it. Harry’s tongue brushes over Louis’ lips, parting them, dipping inside, and Louis whimpers without meaning too, and then they’re both laughing because sometimes sex noises are  _ funny. _

But then Harry’s lips are on Louis’ neck and nothing is funny anymore, not when he’s sucking and licking and mumbling words that sound like, “Lou…Lou…”

Harry doesn’t wait for it. He doesn’t stall and he doesn’t tease, just drops to his knees a minute or two in, and they’re both still in their briefs, which are probably filled with sand, so there isn’t a lot to be done besides pull Louis’ underwear to his ankles, and then—

“Oh,  _ Jesus Christ,” _ Louis whispers. Harry’s just breathing over him, but it’s warm and moist, and he’s never done this before, and neither has Harry, and this is not what he had anticipated happening when he saw Harry in the record shop last week, sucking on a lollipop, but fuck if this isn’t the sweetest plot twist of his young life.

His hips buck unintentionally, and Harry steadies him with a hand. “I know,” Harry says. “I just— give me a second. Let me—” He sticks his tongue out and licks the tip of Louis’ cock, and Louis is seconds away from crying because this is more than he can handle.

And then his cock is in Harry’s mouth, and Louis’ life will never be the same.

“Oh, God,” he whimpers, hands flying up automatically to grab at Harry’s shoulders. “Oh, God…Oh…God…Harry…”

It’s warm and wet, and Louis’ knees are already shaking. “Harry,” he says weakly, because now that it’s happening all he wants is more; more of this, more of Harry, more of whatever he can take, and Harry just keeps licking and sucking and— and— Louis groans because Harry’s  _ moaning, _ and that’s the final straw.

“I want…”  he mumbles, gasping at whatever it is that Harry’s doing with the tip of his tongue. “I want…”

“Yeah?” Harry breathes, and his hands don’t stop moving, don’t stop petting over Louis’ thighs as he sinks back down, taking Louis in even farther this time. He sucks hard, and Louis’ mind goes blank. Harry pulls off after a moment, and his voice is rough when he murmurs, “What do you want?” as if Louis weren’t potentially having an out of body experience.

“I want…I want—” Harry dips back down and Louis’ breath catches, hard, before he’s finally able to manage, “to fuck,” in voice equal parts shaky and brave. 

Harry moans around his cock, and for a split-second Louis thinks, this is it, this is the end, before he’s able to haul himself back from the ledge, nails digging into his palms.

Harry mumbles something around Louis’ cock, and it sort of sounds like, “Okay,” but it’s hard to tell because, well, he has a dick in his mouth, and this is a real life thing that’s happening. Louis can barely breathe. 

Harry pulls off, and it looks like it takes him some effort to do so. It’s a sight so unbelievable that Louis has to close his eyes and count to ten. “How do you want it?” Harry asks, hot breath spreading over Louis’ cock.

For a second he thinks Harry means, like,  _ position-wise, _ and he blushes because, well, he really only knows, like,  _ the basics. _ On your back. On your knees. Someone sitting on you. And all three are equally appealing, equally interesting, but then he opens his eyes, and Harry’s staring up at him with this huge, needing look, and his chest is heaving, his lips are swollen. There’s a flush running up his chest, and Harry just blinks up at him and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and suddenly Louis realizes:

He means who’s gonna— who will do the actual—

A shiver runs the course of Louis’ whole body, Harry’s cheek absolutely burning where it rests against Louis’ cock.

He’s thought about it. Of course he’s fucking thought about it. He’s nineteen and spends most of his waking moments thinking about sex, both explicitly and implicitly. But in his vague day-dreams, and even in his harsher, more vibrant fantasies, he’s never really had a preference because holy fucking shit both options sound good.

But he doesn’t know what Harry wants, and he doesn’t know how to ask, and ever since he was thirteen and started the whole, you know,  _ puberty thing,  _ he’s always just sort of assumed that by the time he was actually in this position, both participating parties would just sort of… _ know.  _ He never really anticipated having to actually spell it out one way or another.

“Either,” he finally whispers, because either is fine, either would be  _ incredible, _ and, fuck, he has to actively prevent himself from thinking about  _ either _ because the competing images—sinking slowly into Harry, or Harry filling him up completely—are sending a new wave of heat spiraling up his veins, and he’d really like to be able to actively finish, like,  _ from sex _ than just from the mere thought of it.

Harry inhales shakily and his hands smooth up Louis thighs, up his hips, to settle on his waist. “Same,” he whispers. His lips are dark red, and he keeps  _ licking them  _ and Louis will seriously explode if they don’t get this show on the road. “…me first, then?” Harry offers when Louis doesn’t respond, and Louis feels a rush of gratitude for that, for Harry just going on and taking the lead.

“Okay,” Louis nods. “Okay.”

Harry doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly leans back. He just lays himself out there. Louis crawls forward until he’s right above him, hands bracketing Harry’s shoulders, knees framing his hips. 

Nobody moves.

Louis doesn’t live in  _ total _ ignorance, okay. He might not be experienced, and he might not have ever had anybody to ask about this shit, but Julian sold some dirty mags at the back of the record shop, very standard Playboy and Hustler type stuff, and while none of it ever had any specifics about  _ this  _ particular type of situation, Louis thinks the gist of it— “warm her up before you do anything else”—probably applies here too.

“I’m gonna…” he mumbles, collapsing down a bit, face pressing into the curve of Harry’s neck, “I’m gonna touch you now. Okay?” Harry makes a strangled noise and nods quickly, legs spreading apart. Louis swallows and reaches down to ease Harry’s briefs off, the elastic of the waistband pressing his fingers against Harry’s hips on the drag down.

Harry rises up for a moment and Louis pulls his underwear down his thighs, past his knees, and off. And then Harry’s naked below him. Completely naked. And Louis is on top of him. Completely naked. 

Louis takes a deep breath, heart pounding.

He’s still nervous when he snakes his hand down again, but Harry whines a little when Louis’ fingertips brush over his hips, and that’s emboldening if nothing else. The skin between Harry’s thighs is softer than anything he’s ever touched, warm and a little damp with sweat. Louis can’t help but pause there, letting his fingers trace over skin and downy hair, his face burning hot where he presses it into Harry’s neck. He’s so unbelievably turned on, he can’t help it.

“Louis…” Harry mumbles, and he sounds pleading. Frantic. Louis presses a kiss to the junction of his neck and his shoulder. Licks a little.

When Louis’ fingers finally find their mark, he stops again and swallows. Harry’s hands tighten on Louis’ back. He starts to press a finger in, gently as he can, and Harry stiffens with a sharp inhale.

Louis’ finger freezes. “Okay?” 

Harry nods, but Louis can feel the way his chest is heaving a little harder now. He tries again, and the skin around his finger is dry and tight, and Harry kicks a little at the sand, obviously uncomfortable. Louis stops and sits up.

“Babe—”

Harry cuts him off, eyes wide. “It’s fine. Keep going,” he says, but Louis can feel Harry’s cock softening against his thigh.

Louis frowns. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Harry. We need to…” He bites his lip and prays this isn’t a completely ridiculous thing to suggest. “I think we need to get you…like. Wet?”

Harry’s eyes go even wider, and Louis can tell they’re both thinking about the ocean and all the water literally feet from where they lay, but he grimaces and shakes his head. Salt water doesn’t sound like something pleasant to put  _ up there. _

“I don’t think this is gonna work,” Louis says softly, leaning back down to press a kiss against Harry’s jaw. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says again, because Harry’s bright pink now, but not in the kind of way that he was before, and that’s just not right. “Fuck,” he lets his head fall against Harry’s neck. “Fuck, I want to, though…you look…” Incredible. Unbelievable. 

“Okay,” Harry finally whispers, and he sounds disappointed, which is, Louis thinks, extremely relatable.

Louis shifts and leans in again, capturing Harry’s mouth in a kiss, determined to make the best of it either way. They fall back into quick enough, and soon they’re panting into each other’s mouths, hips moving against each other helplessly. 

Louis’ about to reach for Harry’s cock again, because he can’t pass up this opportunity, but Harry suddenly pulls away from the kiss. His head thumps against the sand. “What if...” he says, voice a little uncertain. “What if we..What if we, like— at the same time—”  Louis looks up, and Harry’s eyes harden with determination before he suddenly nods decisively and pushes Louis onto his back.

“What—” Louis begins, unsure of what’s happening, but liking wherever it’s going. 

And then Harry straddles him, facing backwards, and when he moves back, his ass is, like,  _ inches _ from Louis face, which is, frankly just incredible, and all it once it clicks. “Oh, fucking God,” Louis moans when Harry raises his ass up so that his dick’s just  _ there _ , dangling in Louis’ face, and a warm, wetness surrounds his own once again. Harry’s cock is hard again and red and wet and  _ right there. _ “Yes, yes, fuck—” 

He uses his hands to guide Harry’s cock into his mouth, and then, just like that, it’s happening. He’s giving his first blow job while also getting his first, and he’s not quite sure what to do, but the weight of Harry’s cock in his mouth is dizzying, so he just follows Harry’s lead, sucking and licking and gagging just a little because Harry’s going crazy with it, rocking back in tiny increments each time he bobs his own head.

“Careful,” Louis mumbles and it comes out like  _ Cah-fel  _ because there’s a cock in his mouth, but Harry seems to get it, instantly pulling off to say, “Sorry, sorry—” before going right back for it, and it’s a little easier then, Louis thinks, to just go for it, to just try to do whatever he thinks he’d like for himself.

He thinks he’d like to try this solo sometime, when he’s  _ really _ able to focus on it, because he can barely keep his own hips from jerking, what with the way Harry’s mouthing at the head of his cock and tentatively stroking his balls, and it’s hard to focus on it all: his own pleasure, keeping himself in line, and trying to do whatever he can for Harry.

They get there in the end. It’s messy and frantic and definitely not the most skillful of mutual blow jobs, or even blow jobs alone, but when Harry pulls off and says, “Fuck, Lou, so close,” Louis groans in agreement and lets Harry’s cock fall out of his mouth. It’s probably incredibly kinky, to be come on while also coming on someone else, especially for the first time around, but it’s honestly just what ends up happening thanks to the logistics of it all, and Louis can’t say he really minds. Especially not when Harry crawls off of his lap and turns around to beam dazedly at Louis, lips and cheeks and neck coated in wet and white.

“Holy fucking shit,” Louis says, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel every beat.

Harry giggles and scoots over to him, and Louis grabs his hand, pulling him in close.  “That was awesome,” Harry breathes, and Louis nods, brain still not functioning at full capacity. For a brief moment they just stare at each other, and then Harry suddenly says, “I hate to ruin the moment, but…can we go wash our faces?” and Louis just laughs and pulls him in for a kiss, and it’s sort of weird, being able to taste himself, so he nods in agreement because, yeah, that was fun while it lasted, but it’s really just gross now.

They walk hand in hand down to the water and splash their faces in the moonlight. Harry splutters when he gets salt water in his mouth, and Louis kisses him better, and they both taste of California, boy, and the sea. 

When they lay back down on the sand, Louis curls tight around Harry’s back, and lets his cheek press against his neck.

“Look,” Harry says softly and wiggles their intertwined hands.

The tiny ink H and L fit together side by side, the H in front of the L.

“Yep,” Louis smiles. “That’s us,” he says.

They lay there on the sand and the waves crash and crash just feet from them. The air is soft and the music from the van still plays on. Harry hums along with the Beach Boys, and all Louis can do is stare up at the sky and smile. It’s painfully simple and undeniably true when he thinks to himself: I can’t believe how happy I am.

Harry’s fingers carve circles and squiggles and tiny little hearts into the skin where Louis’ thigh meets his hip, and it doesn’t feel sexual anymore, doesn’t feel leading. It feels sweet and kind, and a little like love.

The fingers stop when Harry suddenly says, “I think I wanna write a letter to my mom.” His soft voice is strong in the quiet of the beach

It’s random and abrupt, and it takes Louis a few moments to even process. When he turns his head in confusion, Harry’s eyes are uncertain, and he swallows hard. 

He looks like he has something to prove.

Louis blinks. “Okay,” he says carefully, and it sounds an awful lot like  _ since when? _ even to his own ears. The sound of the ocean is gentle and thrumming, and it fills the silence left in the wake of their voices. He searches Harry’s face, surprised. “What about?” 

Harry shrugs awkwardly, more of a jerk of his head than anything, and then he lays himself back again to stare up at the sky. 

They don’t say anything else about it, but Louis keeps his fingers threaded through Harry’s, and their feet stay tangled together. 

They fall asleep kissing that night.

Louis knows he has fallen in love.

[](https://ibb.co/cyFuRQ)   
[xx](https://imgbb.com/)  


[](https://ibb.co/cgsf0k)


	10. Chapter 10

**⩶**

**12 Hours Until The Concert**

**⩶**

He wakes up the next morning hot, sandy, and alone, and it’s not so much the hot and sandy aspect of it that disorients him, as it is the aloneness. He blinks in the mid-morning sunlight and looks around, confused— not because he thinks Harry’s, like, _abandoned him,_ or anything, but because it’s not like Harry to be willingly awake in the morning. Especially not if it’s early enough for Louis to still have been sleeping.

It takes him another drowsy moment or two to realize that he’s butt-naked, his briefs still balled up in the sand next to him. He shoots up in horror and quickly scrambles to put them on, looking over his shoulder to make sure the tree line is still somewhat covering him, Jesus fucking Christ.

If he hadn’t been awake before, he definitely is now, so he makes his way back down the beach to where’d they left the boys the night before and wonders what the hell they’re going to do for clothes, grimacing when he glances down at his chicken legs.

“Yo!” Niall shouts when Louis comes jogging into view. “Guess what we found!” He’s in his briefs as well, all pasty-chested and slightly hairy, and Louis really, _really_ wonders what the hell they’re going to do for clothes.

“Have you seen Harry?” he asks immediately, but his eyes follow to where Niall is pointing, to a spot right at the edge of the trees and the sand where Liam and Zayn—

“We found our clothes!” Liam shouts happily, pulling his t-shirt from last night over his head. Louis decides that there really is a God.

“Harry’s somewhere down that way,” Niall gestures of his shoulder. “Saw him like an hour ago,” he says dismissively before returning back to the morning’s apparent miracle. “But look! They didn’t actually steal our shit!” he grins. “They just dumped it in the grass over there.”

“And ran it over with their car,” Zayn adds ruefully, holding up his flattened vest.

Louis’ already heading over, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fuck, that’s fine by me…” His jeans are a little dirty, and his yellow t-shirt has a very distinct tire track stretching across the chest, but the first calamity of the day has been successfully avoided, so he shrugs it all on and finds he couldn’t give less of a shit.

Fully clothed, he’s now able to turn his full attention to his next question: _where_ is Harry?

He has a dim, orgasm-hazy memory of Harry announcing that he wanted to write a letter to his mother, but he’d woken up almost under the impression that it must have been a dream, given Harry’s usual tendency towards sighing and evasiveness at the mere mention of family.  

Louis frowns. The idea of Harry suddenly wanting to write home to mother is just as strange now as it had been under the cover of night and sex.

Still, he’s nowhere to be found, and it’s astronomically early, particularly by Harry’s standards, so Louis puts two and two together—

late night decision + early morning disappearance— and sets off down the beach with a sinking feeling in his stomach that this letter might be more of a Letter.

✘✘✘✘✘

“Harry?” Louis calls out as he wanders. The sun’s bright off enough off the water that he has to shield his eyes with his hand, and— he falters when a glint of black catches his eye.

Louis’ hand snaps down and he stops in his tracks, staring at the little black letter in the center of his wrist.

Holy shit. They really did that.

And then he takes off running because he suddenly can’t wait another second to see this boy.

 _His_ boy.

They meet each other in the middle, and it’s clear that Harry was on his way back. He’s got a piece of paper in his hand and a pen behind his ear, and he’s still in his briefs, which should look stupid, or funny at the very least, but it doesn’t. It really doesn’t.

And although he doesn’t look _happy_ , he doesn’t look sad. He at least smiles when he spots Louis, so Louis lets himself relax a little, immensely relieved.

“Hey,” Louis slows to a stop, smiling wide. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” Harry agrees, and Harry just leans right on in and kisses him. It’s a good kiss, a good morning kiss, and Louis lets himself relax even farther. Lets himself think that he really could get used to good morning kisses from smiling boys.

“You found the clothes then?” Harry asks, leaning back and looking Louis up and down.

Louis smirks and nods, striking a little pose. “Fashion,” he says, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he pulls jauntily at the tire track t-shirt.

Harry smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Louis’ frown returns. He and Harry usually share the same brand of funny, and that was _definitely_ funny.

“What’s up” he asks cautiously. “Did you finish your letter?”

Harry glances down at the paper clutched by his side. “Yeah,” he says. “But. I think…” he pushes his hair back behind his ears, “I think I wanna call her instead.” He looks tired and antsy, and Louis’ frown deepens.

“Okay,” he says carefully, grabbing Harry’s free hand— the one with the  L. “Do you…do you wanna talk about it?”

Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat. It’s grumpy and defeated and nervous all at the same time. “Not really,” he says, and Louis has to look away at the irritation in his voice. “Hey,” Harry says immediately, voice much softer. Louis feels him tug on his hand, so he looks up from where he’d been staring down at the sand. “It’s alright,” Harry says.  _“It’s okay, Lou."_ And Louis knows that Harry can tell that he doesn’t believe him, but Louis nods and squeezes his hand. “Just…” he hesitates, and Louis can hear the paper in his hand crinkle. “Can we go— like, go find a phone— like…now?” He glances at the paper again. “Before I lose my nerve, or whatever.”

Louis blinks helplessly, and the sinking pit in his stomach drops with a thud. That’s just— that’s such a loaded statement. That’s not what someone says when they’re just calling to check in with their mother, and Harry’s bottom lip is swollen and red, and Louis can tell he’s been gnawing at it all morning.

Louis forces himself to nod and mutter, “Yeah, of course,” unsure of what else to say.

Harry presses another kiss to his lips, and Louis inhales, emboldened. “Can you… I mean, I guess I’m just sort of confused,” he says, catching Harry’s eye purposefully. He’s poking when Harry said not to, but he can’t help it, can’t stop the turning in his stomach when he adds all of the oddities of the past few hours together. “You look— Harry you look like— like,  _really_ freaked out... Babe, what’s going on?”

Harry just shrugs and pulls on his shorts Louis silently offers him.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry says, and that’s it.

That’s it.

✘✘✘✘✘

Niall slams the driver’s side door shut. “Alright, love birds. Who’s ready to go get some Queen tickets?!”

The Garbage Truck is idling, Harry is more or less smiling, everyone’s decent, and this is Step One towards the moment Louis has been waiting for.

It quickly becomes apparent that San Francisco is both exactly and nothing like Louis had imagined. It’s a city, and it _looks_ like a city, and they’ve passed through quite a few of those on their way here, but this is, like, hilly and blue-skied, and it’s not like, _Oz_ , or anything, but it’s so far removed from Brunswick that’s it’s hard to imagine that they’re still on the same planet, let alone the same country. There’s people on bikes, and people walking, and people in cars, and there’s more long hair and short shorts than he thinks he’s ever seen in his life. It’s all he can do to keep his nose from pressing against the glass with how badly he just wants to take it all in.

They stop at a light, and the convertible beside them is blasting some song Louis’ never heard, but it’s loud and wailing, and the longhaired guy in the front seat is singing along, cigarette in hand, and before he even knows what he’s doing, Louis is turning to Harry and saying, “Can we stay here forever?”

He whips back around without waiting for an answer, blushing a little at his own eagerness, but Harry just wraps an arm around his middle and tucks his chin over his shoulder. He doesn’t reply, but he does nod, and Louis smiles out the window, safe where it feels like no one can see.

Niall pulls over when they realize that no one knows where the hell they are going— all they have to go on is a magazine cutout, more than six month’s old, that Louis had kept tucked in the front pocket of his bag. There, listed right between San Diego and Vancouver, it says, **July 22nd 1978 - San Francisco, Ca - Winterland Ballroom.**

Louis presses an obnoxious kiss onto the clipping before handing it off to Niall, the warmth of Harry’s nod alone sending his spirits flying.

“We’re looking for the Winterland Ballroom?” Niall asks a tall man in a tight t-shirt who’s stopped at a crosswalk. The man laughs like they’re stupid and tells them to take Division up to Shutter, and Louis shouts “Thank you!” as loudly as he can, much to everyone else’s embarrassment.

“You’re an idiot,” Zayn says warmly, and, looking around at the company he’s keeping and all the ridiculous shit he’s done this week, Louis thinks, _yeah. I most definitely am._

✘✘✘✘✘

Just off Division and Shutter sits a squat white building with a cherry red sign that reads WINTERLAND in off-white letters stacked one on top of the other. The paint on the brick is peeling in places. There’s a few cracks in the windows. The front doors look old and heavy. Even the plaster awning jutting out above the rows of double doors is sort of dirty and faded.

“This is it?” Liam asks nervously, and Niall snickers, clearly unimpressed, but Louis ignores them because the building’s shitty and old, but he loves it without a thought.

The marquee reads 7/22: QUEEN and then below it, 7/23: W. DEAD RIDERS. 7/24: BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN & E STREET BAND. 7/25: KENNY LOGGINS, and Louis’ mouth goes dry because— those are _names_ . Names of bands he knows. _Good_ bands.

He slides the door open and hops out, ready to march straight up to the ticket box and get what he came here to get, but he pauses two steps in, one foot dangling in the air in front of him, when a hand on his elbow stops him.

“Hey,” Harry says in an odd voice. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna go call my mom, okay?” He hikes a thumb at the phone booth outside the gas station across the street before reaching into his pocket for his wallet, fishing out a $5 bill and some change. “Get me a good seat,” he smiles. It’s a little strained.

Louis raises an eyebrow. A week ago, he never would have considered getting out of this line, but he looks at Harry— looks at the nervous creases framing his eyes— and immediately says, “You sure you’re okay alone?”

He’d hoped Harry would hear the offer there, but then he’s gone, jogging to the street and darting between passing cars.

✘✘✘✘✘

Two minutes later, he’s in line to get tickets to see his favorite band of all time, and all Louis can think about is Harry Styles.

The line isn’t really moving, and he reasons that if they try hard enough, Niall, Liam, and Zayn can probably fork over cash without his supervision, so he hands off two fives and some change, and says, “I’ll be back. I gotta— I’m gonna go check on Harry.”

He’s only halfway across the street when he hears someone frantically calling his name.

“Louis! _Lou!”_

He turns automatically, and his eyes land on Niall.

“What?” he calls back.

Niall doesn’t reply, just shakes his head and looks at the ground, and Louis takes a few steps forward, back to the curb.

“What?” he shouts again, glancing back impatiently to where he sees Harry in line to use the pay phone. Niall’s face is stricken, and Liam’s got his hands on his head, eyes wide, and for five more seconds, Louis really can’t fathom what the problem possibly could be.

It’s Zayn that gives up the guns.

“It’s all sold out, Lou,” he shouts. He gestures sadly at the group ahead of them. “They’re waiting to get into general admission tonight—”

The words bite into him like Novocain. In that first moment he nearly sways, nearly trips right there at the edge of the street with the sharpness of it.

After that, all he hears is numb ringing in his ears.

Not panic. Not disbelief. Not confusion.

Just. Ringing.

✘✘✘✘✘

He doesn’t really remember getting there, but the next thing Louis knows, he’s sat on the hot concrete outside the Winterland Ballroom.

Zayn crouches down before him, looks him right in the eye and says, voice low, “Liam asked the dude in front of us how long he’d been waiting in line for tickets.”

The ringing hasn’t stopped yet.

“No,” Louis whispers. “No way.” It's very simple: this simply isn't happening. “No,” he repeats.

The ringing is getting louder.

“Said he bought ‘em two weeks ago,” Liam mumbles, clearly not wanting to be cast as the bearer of bad news. “Been waitin’ in line to get in since five this morning, though.”

The people closest to them are staring in sympathy, and a few are probably even laughing at the manic stare surely etched across Louis' face, but all the blood’s rushed from his head, and he can’t stop saying _no,_ and everything’s gone a little fuzzy.

And then without even making a conscious decision, he’s on his feet again, running back through traffic to the other side of the street.

Harry’s inside the phone booth right outside the gas station door, and his back is towards Louis when he approaches. He’s got the phone in one hand, and his arm braced against the glass wall, head hanging low, and Louis doesn’t even think before striding right up to him, just needs someone to pinch him or tell him this is all just a fucked up joke. He doesn’t even spare a thought for what it was that Harry came over here to do in the first place.

He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough to hear Harry’s voice.

 _“Yes,_ Gemma,” Harry says, and his voice is pinched in a way that Louis has never heard before.

Louis falters, mind both sluggish and racing.

“I’m sure she misses me very, _very_ much. No. I—” Harry huffs, apparently cut off. “Gemma— Gemma, did she actually _tell you_ what happened? Gemma, _that’s not why I called!”_ He stops, listening with a neutral expression for several long moments. “Fine. I’m _fine._ I—” Harry sighs, and his face falls, just absolutely crumples.

Louis’s heart flies into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and then, “I’m okay. I promise.” He listens for a moment, and his fist clenches, voice rising again in frustration. “She _told_ me to! What was I _supposed_ to think? _Fucking—”_ He chokes off, silent for several seconds, and then, “Okay. Okay. _Okay._ I— _fuck_ , the call’s gonna cut out soon… I’ll… I’ll call in a few days, okay?” His fist unclenches. “I love you too,” he finally mumbles.

Half-formed thoughts of tickets and fuck ups fly on through Louis’ head, but they screech into background noise. Harry’s neck is flushing red, and he’s rubbing the corner of his eye like he’s trying not to cry, and Louis has never, ever felt this sick in his entire life.

Harry places the phone back on the hook and takes a deep breath, visibly trying to compose himself. When he turns, Louis is right outside the open door. “Oh,” he startles. His chest heaves. “Hey.”

“You okay?” Louis asks, and his voice shakes from what’s just happened and it shakes from the look on Harry’s face, but Harry just slips around him and out of the booth.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, and the words are on the tip of Louis’ tongue _— there’s no tickets—_ but he swallows them down because Harry keeps clearing his throat over and over and sniffling like he’s trying not to cry, and this wasn’t _— none of this was supposed to happen—_ and Louis doesn’t know what to do, can barely even clear his own mind to think.

“Can you— can you please just tell me what’s going on?” he asks, but Harry’s already walking away, and Louis’ left standing there feeling like his entire world hasn’t taken a dive from both ends. _“Harry,”_ he trots after him, catching up quickly.

“My mom wasn’t home,” Harry mumbles when Louis’ at his elbow. He says it without looking at Louis, as if he’s saying it just so it’s said. “So my sister was the one who answered the phone, and she was all _why,_ or whatever, but I mean…” Harry cuts himself off with a jerky shrug, and Louis stares at him uncomprehendingly.

“Why…what?” he asks slowly, because everything is murky and his brain spinning, spinning, _spinning_.

Harry’s still staring at his feet when he says, “She wanted to know why ran away.”

He spits it out like he's stating the weather, and Louis’ stomach twists belatedly, unsure he's really heard what he thinks he’s just heard.

“…what?” The words echo in his ears even after he’s said them.  _Run away?_

Harry doesn’t respond, and then Louis’ hand is on his bicep, squeezing. “What?” he repeats, louder this time. Harry makes to keep walking, but Louis digs his heels into the ground, and pulls hard on Harry’s arm.

“Run away?” he says, and he’s trying to keep his voice level, desperately trying to get Harry to look at him. _“Run away?_ What—what _kind_ of run away? Are we— are we talking, like, Liam Payne-style running away?”

His throat is constricting, and his heart is pounding, and Harry just—he won’t _look at him._ “What—Harry, what’s going on?” he asks, suddenly becoming scared. He can hear how panicked his voice sounds, even in his own ears . “You—Harry, you told me your mom knew? That first day! I _remember_ we were— we were in that diner and you told me— _what?”_

Harry blinks at the concrete. “She does.”

Louis can’t believe his ears.

“Your mother _knew_ that you were running away? What does— Harry what does that even mean?”

Harry looks down at the pavement. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, I’ve got time.” The words come out sharper than intended, and Louis backtracks, immediately guilty because Harry doesn’t even know what’s happened, has no idea how badly Louis has fucked up. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m sorry, I— I’m just— Harry, why didn’t you—”

Harry stops, and when he turns to Louis his eyes are red and he’s not crying, but he sure as shit has tears in his eyes, and they’re standing there in the middle of this sidewalk in downtown San Francisco, people all around them, and all Louis can see is Harry, but Harry looks a million miles away.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly because it’s the only thought that can squeeze itself through everything else fogging up his mind.

“Just— _shit_ , just give me a second, Louis,” Harry mutters, and he’s obviously frustrated, frustrated enough to pull away when Louis extends a timid hand.

“Sorry,” Louis whispers. Harry’s never pulled away from him like that before.

Harry must see whatever’s written on Louis’ face because his eyes soften slightly. “This isn’t…Lou, please don't take this the wrong way, but,” Harry pauses and looks at Louis straight on. “This isn’t about you, okay? Go back to the line. I just…I—”

Louis’ hand drops to his side like a wire snapped. “Okay,” he says automatically. The implications are clear: This isn’t about you, so _go away_.

When he takes a step back he can’t fight the surge of embarrassment that spins down his spine even though he knows that— he’s—Harry has a life of his own, doesn’t he? He’s got a life back in Maine, or at least he did, and he’s got things to deal with bigger than Louis, and this is just a stupid road trip, and there’s no fucking show to go to anyways. Louis brought them all here for nothing, and Harry’s dealing with whatever, and he obviously doesn’t need Louis’ help to do that, so—

“I’ll, um,” he coughs and tries to adjust his voice, tries to keep whatever’s rushing up inside him from flowing over. “I’ll see you later then.”

He turns and walks away.

✘✘✘✘✘

Five minutes and two blocks later find Louis at a pay phone of his own, one of the quarters meant to be part of his $5.75 ticket pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, but he also has nowhere else to be, so he slides the quarter into the slot and closes his eyes.

Four rings and an eternity later, a friendly voice picks up on the other line and says, “Tomlinson residence, Johannah speaking?” Louis’ throat hurts from how hard he’s trying not to cry.

It takes him a second, but he finally says, “Hi, mom,” in a voice too quiet for having tried so hard to speak.

 _“Louis!”_ the voice on the other line says, and Louis can tell that he’s the last person she was expecting to hear from. “Louis! Honey, I’m so glad you called! Where are you right now, Boobear?”

“California.” His voice nearly cracks.

“Louis— you sound upset, Boo. What’s the matter?” He can hear the concern seep into her voice, and that just makes everything worse. “Is something wrong? Are you alright?”

He sniffles and shakes his head before remembering she can’t see. “Yes. Well. Sort of. But— we. We didn’t get tickets to the show, mom.” His throat constricts before he can get anything else out.

_“Oh, Louis…”_

He coughs hard and blinks rapidly a few times, trying to calm himself. “It’s— it is what it is,” he says softly. And then, “I’m sorry I haven’t called.” He says it as clearly as he can because she deserves to hear that, at the very least.

She makes a tutting noise. “And you _should be,”_ she says, but it’s light and caring, and for the first time since leaving, he wishes he were at home. "I was worried!”

“Sorry,” he says again because he doesn’t know what else to say that doesn’t involve Harry.

“So what’s the plan, Boo? When are you coming home?”

The glass of the phone booth is dirty and smudged, but he rests his head against it, and it’s cool on his skin. “I don’t know. Might leave tomorrow,” he mumbles because everything feels different now, even after the screws and their laughter and the beach under the moon last night.

The H on his wrist itches.

“Okay,” his mother says after a minute. “Well. Take your time, baby,” she says, and those five simple words at least let Louis breath a little easier.

“Thanks, mom,” he whispers and takes as deep of a breath as he can.

“Is there anything else you need to talk about, Louis?” she says. “You’re probably just about out of time— you can call me back collect if you need, sweetie.”

 _Yes,_ he wants to shout. _I’ve met a boy and I love him and I started thinking that he just might love me back and I don’t know what to do, Mom, because this fucking concert was the only thing tying us together and_ _I think he might’ve run away from home, but I’m not even sure,_ _and I’m scared that I don’t know anything about him at all, and I want you to tell me what to do._

“No,” he says. “Not really. I think I’m just— _God.”_ His voice cracks for real this time as the first tears finally start to slip down his face. “I really wanted to go to his show, Mom.”

“I know…I’m sorry, Boo. “Maybe next time?”

But there won’t be a next time. At least not like this.

✘✘✘✘✘

He can’t go back to the van because he doesn’t think he can face Niall, Zayn, and Liam, and, more than that, he’s terrified Harry will be there, and he doesn’t think he could deal with getting pushed away again.

So, he sits in the park next to the strip mall where he used the pay phone and stares at the concrete, forcing himself not to cry again. There’s a couple of kids playing on the equipment, and he tells himself he has to keep it together in front of them. It’s easier than acknowledging that sooner or later he’ll have to find his friends again and the only thing worse than that alone would be having to do it with tear-stained cheeks.

He counts the cracks in the pavement in front of the bench where he sits, and every time he remembers how much of a fucking moron he is— how fucking stupid he had to have been to not have considered that _hey,_ _maybe we need to get there, like, early enough to fucking buy tickets?—_ he gets the urge to throw something, so eventually he grabs a muddy newspaper page someone’d tossed on the ground and focuses on ripping that up instead.

He doesn’t let himself think about Harry. He doesn’t let himself think about Harry’s apparent runaway status, or whatever the fuck is going on. He doesn’t let himself think about the fact that Harry trusted him so little that he never mentioned this once.

It’s all he can do not to think about that morning back in Kelso City, when he’d come out of the bathroom only to find Harry whispering consolingly to Liam.

He gives up and wonders if Harry had told Liam right in that very moment, one teenage drifter to another.

And then there’s no more newspaper to rip up.

 _“Lou!”_ a voice calls out. It’s loud and relieved, and Louis’ insides twist. He really thought he’d have more time before having to deal with this.

Harry sits down on the bench next to him, and this time it’s Louis’ turn not to look him in the eyes. “How’d you find me?” he says and pretends to be extremely interested in the pile of litter he’s accumulated. He sounds bitter and tired, and that’s probably unfair, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel a bit better.

“I checked every store on this street, and didn’t find you, so… next stop was the park.” Harry says, and he sounds… fine. Like their previous conversation had never happened at all. His arm’s sweaty where it touches Louis’, and he’s panting a little. “It was just a straight line. Thanks for that.”

Louis doesn’t respond and takes to counting the scraps of ripped up newspaper instead.

“They, um.” Harry fidgets beside him. “The boys told me what happened.” His voice is low and apologetic, and Louis sort of wants to strangle him because now that he’s here, he’s not angry anymore. Not that he ever really was.

He’s just unbelievably sad.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you. I—” Harry says, as Louis feels his shoulders slump. And then Louis’ changed his mind— being bitter and tired doesn’t make him feel better at all. Not when it comes to the boy beside him. “It _really is_ a long story,” he adds, and he sounds like a kid in trouble with his mom, and Louis hates just about everything about that.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says because it feels like the right thing to do, and because now that it’s on the table, he finds that he doesn’t want it at all— not if Harry didn’t want to give it to him in the first place.

Harry doesn’t respond for a long time. When he finally replies, he lays a hand on Louis' knee. “The boys want to go back to the beach.” Louis braces himself for the veritable sadness he’s sure he’s going to find when he turns to face Harry for the first time, but all he sees is a boy with big, wide eyes and a look of determination.

“Could I tell you everything there?” Harry asks softly. “I think I’d like to to do it right.”

✘✘✘✘✘

The walk back to the Winterland is quick and painful, and Louis stubbornly refuses to look up from the ground as they pass the small general admission crowd. Harry’s right there by his side, a calming hand on his elbow, but even that sort of hurts, in a _what are we doing, what are we going to become, everything’s fucked up and ending_ sort of way.

“Fuck, there you are,” Zayn says from around the tip of his cigarette when they approach the Garbage Truck. “We were about to send out a search party for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis hops into the backseat without looking around once. “You can call it off. I’m right here.” He can hear laughter and chatter and general merriment from over by the theater, and he really would like to get the hell out of here _now_

No one says much of anything on the way back to the beach. Harry and Louis sit side by side, and Louis stares at the carpet the whole ride, avoiding the sympathetic looks he knows Niall and Liam are shooting him. He’s not sure if they’re proof that he’s the only one that cared this much, or if they know anything about the situation about Harry. He pulls at a loose thread on the carpet. He’s probably the only one that feels lost and betrayed by that one, too.

When they roll back up to the beach they were at last night, Louis barely glances at the navy blue water before setting off down the sand. He doesn’t look back as he walks because it would take courage to check that Harry’s following him, and that’s something he doesn’t feel like he has a lot of right now.

“I really don’t want you to be mad at me.”

Louis stumbles to a stop and freezes.

That’s not what he’d been expecting at all.

He turns and Harry’s right behind him. His hair’s all mussed up from the ocean breeze, and his sunburn from a few days ago seems like it’s gotten pinker from being out in the sun all morning.

He looks like he’s waiting for the ground to swallow him up whole.

“Harry.” Louis melts, reaching out for him. “No. _No._ I’m not angry. I’m just—”

“I don’t even know where to start, Lou” he says, and in this moment he looks so young, Louis thinks. Younger than he has any right to really be, and Louis suddenly feels terrible. Worse even than from the ticket fiasco or from the phone call or the park because this is Harry looking like shit from something that Louis’ done, from Louis being so stupidly selfish that—

This boy _ran away from home._

God, he’s such a fucking asshole.

“Come here,” Louis says quietly, and he holds out a hand. Harry takes it, and Louis pulls him into his chest. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know where they’ll be or _what_ they’ll be tomorrow, but Harry sinks into his touch and that’s enough to tell Louis that he needs this, needs _someone_ right now. “Let’s sit down.”

Louis follows Harry’s lead, lets them sit shoulder to shoulder. It’s probably easier for Harry this way, he thinks, to say whatever it is that he needs to say.

“Still don’t know where to start,” Harry mumbles and pulls his knees straight up to his chest. It’s almost like any other day in the van.

Louis nudges his shoulder and tries to seem calmer than he really is. “The beginning, maybe?” The joke falls flat. They sit in silence for a moment, and a seagull lands nearby. Louis watches it pick at the sand, and says, “Would it be easier if I just asked you stuff?” Harry shrugs, and Louis hooks their pinkies together and takes that as a yes. “What happened with your sister on the phone?” he asks, because they might as well start with today.

Harry blanches. “She said our mom wasn’t home, and she— she—” his voice fades, and he looks down at the sand. “She wanted to know why I left.”

Louis frowns because both ends of that seem awfully vague. “But you…did you really run away? Like…” He hates to repeat his earlier analogy, but it’s probably the most fitting. “Like, run away in the way Liam ran away?”

It seems like a simple enough question— did you or did you not ditch your home without telling your mother?, but Harry just shakes his head, and then stops and starts nodding, and then he’s shaking his head again, and Louis can see the strain in his neck, the color working it’s way up from his chest.

“Harry, I don’t...babe, did you run away or not? _"_ Louis asks quietly, growing more and more confused.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe both. We... we had an argument the morning I met you,” he says. “She, um. My mom.” He swallows, still staring hard at the sand. “She doesn’t know that I’m, um. That I’m...gay, you know. But she also _knows,_ you know.” He laughs humorlessly. “I don’t know if that even makes any sense. But, um. We had an argument, I guess, and it wasn’t, like. The first one you know… And it’s always been pretty clear in my mind that she wasn’t, you know, happy about it, or whatever, even though I’ve never said anything, and I don’t— I don’t even know how she _knows,"_  he whispers, and his voice breaks with the weight of his words.

 _It’s not really a big deal to me,_ he’d said back in the field in Kansas, under the stars, where he could have said anything at all.

“And I, um. I refused to say it, you know. Like. Admit anything. And… and she basically told me to…you know... just— _get out.”_ He laughs darkly and rubs a hand over his face. “I think she thought I’d just, like. Go to a friend’s house for a night or two, or something, but I was just…that was it for me, you know? ”

Louis feels sick to his stomach.

“Harry…” he exhales, unable to comprehend what he’s hearing, and sudden, overwhelming anger flies up his throat, acrid and painful.

His mother. His own _mother._

He’s vaguely aware that his hands have started shaking.

“How fucking— how fucking _dare—”_ Louis’ hands are shaking, and his ears are ringing, and he knows he’s being selfish, but the words tumble out anyways, “Babe— Harry— You could’ve _told me_. You should’ve— I would’ve—”

“Louis, it wasn’t like—” Harry cuts off his stuttering. “You’ve _seen_ me this whole time. I’m fine. I’ve been _fine.”_ He doesn’t sound fine, though. His voice is high and thin and embarrassed and cracking, and Louis could have _been there_ _for him._ Whatever that means, whatever it would have taken.

“Harry—”

“It’s embarrassing!” he spits out suddenly, and Louis’ hand freezes where it had been rubbing his arm. “I didn’t tell you because it’s—it’s embarrassing, Louis! You—you’re—” He chokes off, face furiously pink, and Louis just stares, eyes wide in disbelief, because nothing about this entire situation is embarrassing, not even in the slightest, and even now, with Harry right before him, teary and red cheeked, he doesn’t see anything, _anything_ that could even begin to be seen as embarrassing.

All he sees is a boy who was incredible from the moment they met.

A boy that he’s positive he’d do anything for.

It takes him a second, but Harry finally seems to collect himself enough to gather his thoughts. “No one in the entire world knew that I was gay before I met you,” he says quietly. He looks down at his hands. “Out loud, at least. Literally no one.”

Louis hears the words, and he swears he comprehends them, but that’s—that can’t be right.

“But you kissed me,” he finds himself saying, growing more and more confused by every the second. “You—like.”

Harry shrugs helplessly. “You came out to me. Remember?” he says. “I’d never even…Lou, I’d never even _met_ another gay kid before, and I was like— I was,” he swallows and makes a small, sad noise that has Louis reaching for his hand. “I was like…at the point where I thought I was going to explode.” Louis fingers tighten around his hand. “Before you,” Harry whispers, “I was going to explode.” Louis’ eyes dart around Harry’s face, searching for any signs of joking or exaggeration or even mockery because he can’t believe this, can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“I didn’t know anyone else,” Harry stumbles on, and he keeps looking up and then down again, blinking back tears, and Louis doesn’t know how to react to any of this. “My mom doesn’t _know,_ even though she knows. I couldn’t tell any of my friends. It was just…” He swallows and closes his eyes before continuing. “She told me to leave, and it was like a weight off my shoulders, Lou.” His hangs his head, shaking it back and forth.

“I went into Julian’s shop that day because it’s closest to the Greyhound station. The ticket office was already closed for the evening, and I didn’t want to go home. ” he says softly. “All of this shit was going on with my mom, and at the moment— literally at the moment that I needed you, you— you just came in, and I already knew that I had to get out of there— like, out of that fucking town and away from—” He stops like he can’t get himself to say the words.

“And then you just like— came out of nowhere and _said it._ Like. An hour into knowing me. I’d been about ready to get on a fucking Greyhound to California or wherever the hell I could, and then I suddenly just _met you_ and you— _You just said it!”_  His eyes are huge. Every is word staccato with disbelief, and he’s acting as if he’s in awe of something that cost Louis so much to say, so much to do. “And I remember sitting there in that park and just being like—blown away. _Beyond_ blown away,” he laughs sadly.

“Harry, that’s not—” Louis tries to say, because Harry’s got this all wrong. Louis isn’t _brave_ or bold or inspiring. He’s just _not,_ not even _close._

Harry talks right over him. _“_ So, I was like…like, I remember sitting there in the back of your van and literally thinking to myself: Fuck it, Harry, now’s your chance, what do you got to lose? Because in my head, I all I could think was… if _this_ kid can do it, then so can I. So…” he looks up from his lap and right into Louis’ eyes, “I did it.”

“Oh my God,” Louis whispers.

Harry keeps going because apparently he has more to get out, more ways to kill Louis, and the words are coming faster now, as if he can’t keep up with everything he wants to say. “I had no idea what I was doing,” he says. “I snuck back into my house that night to get my shit, and I remember sitting there in my room, just so nervous and excited and ready _to go.”_ He offers up a small smile. “I just couldn’t believe it. You were this kid from Brunswick who was apparently cool with telling people he was gay and inviting strangers on trips across the country, and you were so…” Harry cuts off, and Louis can see the words get stuck in his throat. “Cute, to be frank,” Harry says softly. “Which threw me. A lot.”

They sit there in silence until Harry says, “I knew I’d never met anyone like you, Lou.”

A shiver swims up Louis' spine.

“Harry,” he whispers. “Harry, _I’ve_ never met anyone else like—” He gestures between them without saying the word, without saying _gay,_ because it’s so much more than that now, isn’t it? It _has_ to be. “I had no idea any of this was going on, babe…and I—” Harry’s words from earlier, _I don’t want you to be mad at me,_ slam into him, and the words die in his throat, only to be replaced by cold, sharp guilt.

It doesn’t matter that he hadn’t told him, Louis realizes. It matters that he’s telling him now.

He grabs Harry’s hand again. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for telling me.”

Harry just nods, eyes fixed firmly on the sand again, and Louis has to say it all, now while they’re laying it all out on the line. “I heard you tell Zayn the first night he was here—that night I got ultra stoned and passed out?“ he laughs weakly, “I heard you tell him you couldn’t ever see yourself with someone else. That you just wanted to have fun and mess around for a while.” Harry’s head shoots up, and Louis can see the gears turning in his head, all the way back to what was, for him, probably a throwaway comment.

But that’s not the relevant part of that conversation anymore. Not with the H and L etched are their wrists.

“I heard you tell him there was, like, a _story_ involved about you leaving town, so I knew something was up, but I thought…” Louis swallows and forces himself to admit, “I thought you just didn’t care enough to tell me. Or that I was reading more into whatever we were...are... than there really was to read…”

“Lou,” Harry whispers, and he’s sitting up properly now, “Lou, I don’t know what there is to, like, _read_ or whatever, but I do know that I was hooked on you from the moment we sat in that park. I just wasn’t—”

“I know,” Louis nods, and he feels his face flush. “I _know._ I just— this whole time I kept thinking, he’s going back to Maine when it’s over, or he’s going off to do his own thing. I thought— Harry, I thought _you_ were the one who knew what he was doing. I’ve literally just been flying along by my pants since day one.”

And then Harry’s shaking his head, clearly distraught, which isn’t fair, that wasn’t what Louis had intended, he just— he just wanted Harry to _know,_ to understand that it wasn’t _like that._ That Louis wasn’t out there being brave or doing whatever Harry obviously thinks he was. Not in the slightest.

“That’s not—Louis, that’s not it at all,” Harry finally says. “I just didn’t know how to say any of this to you because—like— you just _did it_ _all,_ and you did it alone, and I couldn’t even manage to tell my own mother, and I just felt so—  stupid,” he finishes awkwardly.

“That’s not stupid at all,” Louis shakes his head.

Harry wipes his nose a little and shrugs. “It is. It really is. And, I mean, either way…it was like a breath of fresh air, just, like, _being here._ With you and then Zayn and then everyone else, and I could just like—I could just _be._ You know? I didn’t even have to think about it. I didn’t have to pretend for the first time in…well…” Harry blinks. “Ever.”

Harry’s words from days before, crooked and messy on Zayn’s notepad, flash before Louis’ eyes: _I could say whatever about myself, and it would be true for you. I can be whoever with you._

“Harry—” he says weakly.

“You get that, right?” Harry asks. “That, like.” He swallows and looks up at the sky. “I’ve done so much shit this week that I never thought I’d have the balls to do.” He looks back at Louis, eyes shining. “Or even the chance.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, eyes wide. “I get that.” It’s an understatement of epic proportions, but it’s all he can manage to say.

“I thought I’d write her a letter,” Harry suddenly says, and he looks scared again, and somehow even sadder, and Louis wants to kiss him so badly it hurts. “My mom, I mean. Last night. I just suddenly had all of these things that I knew that I had to say, and I knew exactly how I wanted to say it, and for that one moment I felt like— you know.” He bites his lip. _"_ _Ready_ . And then, God, I wrote the entire fucking thing this morning— I was up half the night thinking about it— and I wrote it all, and then it was done and all I could think about was, like, _you,_ and what you would do if you were me, and then…I just, like, suddenly realized that…” he trails off again, and Louis squeezes his hand. “Well. I realized that I think I really might— love you?” Harry says, and Louis’ heart stops.

It comes out of nowhere, and he says it like a question, like this doesn’t change _everything,_ like that’s something he can just _throw out there,_ and Louis’ entire body sways. His mouth opens automatically to respond, but Harry just holds up a hand, and Louis gets that, he gets that feeling of say it now or forever hold your peace, but that doesn’t make it any less fair, doesn’t make it any easier to stop himself from shouting into the void or maybe right into Harry’s face because _he can’t just say things like that._

“But I realized that you’re too important to tell my mom about in a stupid letter,” Harry says softly, and Louis will never be able to understand how it is that Harry could think that _he’s_ the brave one. “I had to tell her in person. Or the closest I could get. I couldn’t pretend anymore. But then I—” his face falls, just completely crumples and if Louis weren’t so confused, so shocked, he’d probably be able to move his limbs, to pull Harry into his chest, or something, _anything_ comforting. “I couldn’t do it,” Harry whispers. “Even before I realized Gemma had answered, I knew that I wasn’t going to do it.”

It’s quiet for a long moment.

“I told her where I am,” Harry whispers. “I told her I was in California, and she said, _I hope you’ve been having a good time on your little trip. Mom’s been worried sick about you, you fucking asshole!”_ Harry makes a choked off noise and buries his face in his palms. “She told me to leave, Lou. _She_ told me to leave!” he cuts off, breathing heavily.

“Harry…” Louis exhales, and his heart breaks even further, watching Harry’s shoulders shake, aborted and stifled, like he’s still trying to hold it all in. “Harry, parents can’t like— they can’t do that,” he says frantically. “Parents don’t kick kids out like that. Just like, to scare them, or shit. Or— or they fucking shouldn’t. That wasn’t— your sister must not know what happened. And if your mother’s telling her that you just, like, up and ran away without warning, just to be a dick or something—” The rage from before starts to build again, deep in his cut, but he tries to keep his voice calming. “That’s not right, babe. It’s _not right.”_

Louis shakes his head because when Harry looks up, his eyes are full of tears, and his hands flying to Harry’s face, thumbs on his cheeks, whispering “No, no, babe, no, no, no…”

“The second it started ringing I chickened out,” he says softly. “And now all I have is this stupid fucking letter.” He shifts and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled up letter, clearly dotted with tear spots. “Go ahead,” he says tonelessly. “Do you wanna read it?” Louis nods, lump in his throat.

Harry’s hands shake as he holds out the wrinkled paper.

 

_Dear mom,_

_I’m in California. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before I left. I’m sorry that I had to leave._

_I’m not sorry that I left._

_I know that you know how I am. I don’t know how. I don’t think I ever really gave you a sign. Maybe it was just a mother's intuition. I’m sorry I wasn’t ever brave enough to tell you this in person, but I spent too many nights convincing myself that I didn’t need to tell you because you didn’t deserve to know. First, out of shame. Then, out of anger. _

_I now realize, here in California where I am happy, where I am with four new friends, that you do deserve to know._

_You were right._

_Mom— I’m gay._

_I hope you understand that those words are probably the hardest thing I will ever write._

_I know what you are feeling right now: confusion, anger._

_Disappointment._

_I need you to understand that I know this because I felt those feelings for years and years and years, and ten days ago, when you told me to leave,  I decided that I did not deserve to feel those feelings anymore, and that is why I left. Because I do not feel confusion or anger or disappointment in myself, but only towards you, and how I knew you would respond._

_I told myself that you didn’t deserve to know the truth because you didn’t deserve to know that part of me, the very best part of me, that you would never, ever be able to appreciate._

_But it’s been ten days since I left home, and I’ve met a boy who has made me change my mind about that, Mom._

_Please understand: I remember being so young and so scared. I remember asking myself “why is this happening?” and wondering who or what was to blame._

_I realized this morning that you do deserve to know the truth about who I am and who I am in love with because I look back on my childhood and the love that I know that you gave me, and I realized that I must be who I am and I must love who I love, at least in part, thanks to you._

_Mom, you told me once a long time ago, before any of this began, that I’ve been exactly the way I am since I was two years old: loud and silly and kind. You told me that all you had to do was teach me how to use it all._

_I want you to know that I’m okay out here in California._

_I’m gay and I’m okay._

_I’ve found a boy that I think I love, and some friends that are really great. So if you taught me to be this way, taught me to be myself and to live a life of love and kindness, then you do deserve to know all of this._

_I don’t think I am coming back._

_Thank you._

_Love,_

_Harry_

 

The paper falls to the sand and Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him as close as possible. Harry burrows his face in Louis’ neck, and he feel hot tears on his skin, can feel tears clinging to his own lashes.

“Oh, Harry…” he murmurs, and when he tightens his arms, Harry’s tighten as well until they’re pressed so close that Louis thinks they could sink into each other.

There’s so many thoughts running through Louis’ mind, half-formulated and spiraling, but there’s one above all that sticks out to him, one thing that Harry said that he can’t stop hearing over and over.

“I might have been alone when I…when I told my mom, or whatever,” he whispers. “But…babe…” His hands tangle at the back of Harry’s shirt. “Being brave doesn’t have to mean doing it alone.” Harry scoffs weakly into Louis’ shoulder and the sound is thick with tears. “I wouldn’t— I understand why you’re scared,” Louis says, and he pauses, overwhelmed. “We could…we could do it together if you want,” he offers, because surely Harry must know where Louis stands. How he feels.

Except—he never got the chance to say it back, did he?

“I love you,” he says loudly. “Like you said, it’s been ten days since we met, and Harry Styles—” Louis nudges Harry’s chin with his thumb so that he looks up. “I love you.” Harry’s fingers dig into Louis’ chest where they’re curled right below his heart. “And we could…mail the letter together,” Louis says wildly, searching for anything to make this beautiful boy stop crying. “Or you could call her again if you want, and I’d be right there on the line. Or I’d— I’d drive all the way back to Maine, Harry. Whatever you want.” Harry sniffles slightly and inches closer, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can’t believe you wanted to tell your mom about me,” Louis says after a moment, when it seems like no fresh tears are falling and the sounds of the world around them, which apparently kept turning throughout all of that, come swimming back to life. He thinks of his own call to his mother, of how he hadn’t said anything at all.

Harry laughs, and it’s wet and a little snotty, so he pulls away to wipe his nose with his arm. “I kind of want to tell the whole world about you,” he says, and Louis has to ignore that because if he lets it sink in, he just might fall to pieces.

Instead, he picks up the fallen letter and folds it carefully, tucks it into Harry’s back pocket and pats it twice. Harry rolls his eyes, and his smile is still sad, but it’s better than nothing.

“So…what do you want to do?” Louis asks. He meant what he said. He’ll do whatever Harry wants. He’ll help any way he can.

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs and rubs at his eyes. “I’d say forget that any of this ever happened, or at the very least deal with it after the concert, but…”

They stare at each other sadly, because that’s it, isn’t it? This really is the end, either way. They drove three thousand miles miles and then some, and their little bubble popped a day early. At some point they need to decide what comes next.

“Well,” Louis says quietly. “If I came all the way to California for nothing…at least it brought me to you.”

✘✘✘✘✘

They don’t deal with it right away, although they do make a plan to give that phone call another try, this time with Louis right there, holding Harry’s hand the entire time.

Instead they meet the boys back at the Garbage Truck, and no one really knows what to do, so Zayn suggests they head out in search of food.

The van is painfully silent as they cruise past neighborhoods lined with pretty colored three flats, up hills, and around corners. Louis eats the last of the M&Ms stashed away in the glove compartment, and his shoulder falls into Harry’s on one of the sloping curves. He stays there, more for the comfort of it than anything, and quietly picks out the blue and the red candies, handing Harry all of the others.

“It’s okay, though,” Niall suddenly says when they pull into the parking lot of a tiny restaurant with a sign that reads _Walt’s._ “We can still go down to the theater tonight. Maybe, like. Maybe people won’t show up? Or someone’ll be selling tickets?”

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly. “Yeah, maybe.” Harry’s thumb runs over the top of his hand, and Louis fights back the urge to tear up again.

It’s just been an emotional day is all.

The diner’s more of a stand than a restaurant, and there aren’t any seats inside, so they eat their burgers and fries in and around the van. They let the radio fill the silence since nobody else has it in them to do it, and that would be fine by Louis if Liam hadn’t tuned in right as they were playing, “Go Your Own Way.” It’s a little too on the nose and, in Louis’ opinion, frankly annoying, but it’s nearly over anyways, and he’s too miserable to bother getting up to change the station.

“All—all— _right,”_ the DJ laughs obnoxiously, coming back as the track fades out, “That was Fleetwood Mac and _you’re_ listening to—” a stupid sound-filler guitar shred goes off— “KOME 98.5.” A stupid voice moans, _"_ _Don’t change the dial! There’s KOME on it!”_ and it’s a sad testament to everyone’s state of mind that not one of them laughs even a little bit. “So, for those of you living under a rock, we’ve got _Queen_ here in San Fran tonight!” The DJ cheers. Harry throws his crumpled up burger wrapper at the radio in protest. “They’ll be over at the Winterland Ballroom tonight at 8:00 and coming up— we’ve got a chance for _YOU_ to win a pair of _SOLD OUT TICKETS!”_

Louis sits up so quickly his fries go flying.

“All you gotta do is give us a call at 987-5453 and tell us why _YOU_ are the world’s biggest Queen fan and why _YOU_ deserve to see Queen _TONIGHT_ at the Winterland Ballroom!”

Before Louis can even process what he’s just heard, Harry is tearing out the sliding door of the Garbage Truck, leaving a literal cloud of dust in his wake.

“Oh, my God.” Louis watches, dumbstruck, as Harry fishes around in his back pocket for change, slamming a dime or two into the shitty side-of-the-wall pay phone by the front door of the restaurant.

“NINE EIGHT SEVEN,” Niall yells out, “FIVE FOUR FIVE TWO!”

“Five THREE!” Liam corrects him, and Harry punches each button as if the pay phone itself has done him wrong.

“Oh, my _God,"_  Louis repeats. He crawls to the edge of the Garbage Truck and stares at the scene unfolding before him as if it were a dream.

“Hi! Hi! Oh— _oh, wow._ I got through.” Harry turns to face the van, phone cord wrapping around his chest. “I GOT THROUGH!” he shouts ecstatically as if they had no idea. “Okay. Okay, um,” he takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. It gets tangled on a knot, and for a second he just stands there, hand stuck in his hair, eyes wide, because apparently he hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“Okay. So. I don’t— I don’t deserve to see Queen,” he says, and Louis’ jaw drops because what _the fuck is he doing?_ “Well. I mean, I guess I do,” he hurriedly backtracks, probably from the look on Louis’ face, “Because if I won these tickets, I’d take my, um, my friend, and I think, like. I think that’d make him really, really happy. If we were able to both go together.” Niall leaps out of the car and starts making rapid hand movements, also akin to _what the fuck are you doing?_ and Harry startles, nodding frantically.

“It’s not live, though, is it?” Liam whispers, pointing at the radio which is currently playing a commercial for laundry detergent.

“Shh!” Niall hisses. “It’s probably being recorded!”

“But _anyways!”_ Harry says, voice high pitched. “I’m calling because my friend, he— _he_ deserves to see Queen.” He looks right at Louis when he says it, and his eyes are still wide, but in a totally different way. “Like. Like, more than anyone I know, probably. He drove all the way from Maine just to go to the concert tonight! He’d been planning to go for months, and then people bailed on him, and he was still like _whatever_ and just _went for it,_ and I ended up coming at the last second,” he says. “And we, um. We picked up a few other…” he stares around at Niall, Zayn, and Liam, “fans…along the way.” Niall snickers and elbows Liam, and Zayn hits him back both as a _shut up_ and a _leave Liam alone._

“And, um. So, yeah. We drove all the way out here, and this guy…this— _listen,”_ Harry says, his voice strengthening suddenly. “This guy played the whole fu— _freaking,”_ he quickly corrects himself, “Queen discography, like, eighteen times on the way here. He’s obsessed! But by the time we got here this morning, there weren’t any tickets left! And if he doesn’t get to go tonight, he’ll probably chop off his arm, which means I’ll have to chop mine off too in solidarity, and—” he cuts off, giggling because Louis can’t help the faces he’s making and Niall keeps snorting from trying to hold in his laughter.

“He’s like,” Harry sobers, “he’s like the living embodiment of Freddie Mercury. Like. Super star energy, total confidence.” He looks directly at Louis again and swallows. “Never afraid to just be himself.” Louis feels his face turn red, and he can see the others cooing and making fun of him out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck because Harry’s— Harry’s out there on live fucking radio doing whatever he can to make Louis happy and saying so much incredible, ridiculous, _unbelievable_ _shit_ that Louis thinks his heart’s in danger of coming up through his mouth.

“He’s the kind of guy that just makes people want to… to get up and _go,_  you know?” Harry says, and his voice is probably too fond for someone just talking about their platonic Queen loving friend, but that’s besides the point.

“You won’t find a bigger Queen fan— or a better person— out there,” he says, and he’s definitely winding down, but the smile on his face would say otherwise. “I mean. He drove three thousand miles just to be here,” he reasons. “That’s gotta be worth something, right?”

He falls silent, listening to someone on the other line, and his eyebrows suddenly shoot up, mouth forming a perfect O. “What? Oh— _that was_ — Okay. Yeah, sure, I could do that all again,” he says quickly, face turning pink. Louis’ eyes bulge, and Niall lets out a huge peal of laughter, unable to contain it any longer. “Um, yeah. I’ll be here. Just, um. Let me put in some more change.” He puts the receiver to his chest and says, “Quick! Get me dimes!” He smiles sheepishly. “That…was just the screening thing, I guess. They, um…the lady on the other line said they really just needed to know the gist of what I would say on air…I’ve gotta say it all again in a few minutes when the DJ comes back from the commercial break.”

“Did you win?” Liam asks excitedly, but Harry just shrugs.

Everyone scrambles for dimes and quarters, and Louis thinks that if Harry’s face is _pink,_ his own must be blood red. “You’re crazy,” he whispers in Harry’s ear when he hands over all the change he has in his front pocket.

“Crazy for you?” Harry offers, and Louis swats him on the arm for good measure.

And then Harry’s pausing, phone still up to is ear just in case it’s time for him to start talking again, and he stares out everyone with an incredibly serious look on his face.

“Just so you know, guys,” he says slowly, “Win or Lose. Queen or No Queen. I, for one, am not going back to Maine tomorrow morning, and I’m gonna need some friends to hang with. I hope we’re all on the same page here— this isn’t _the end,_ the end, right?”

“Hell no!” Liam shouts immediately, and Niall and Zayn nod in easy agreement, and Louis feels himself turn into mush because— alright. So it’s settled then. More or less.

When it’s time for Harry to do it live, it’s a little less romantic— which, in the grand scheme of things, is probably for the best— but it’s heart pounding all the same. “I have a friend that loves Queen enough to have driven us from Maine to California, just for this concert. He played every single song and every single album a million and one times on the way here, and honest to God— I can’t think of a more deserving person,” he says, smiling at Louis the whole time.

That’s apparently enough to get the job done.

Through the van radio, the DJ asks, “What’s your name, man?”

“Harry Styles.”

“And what’s this Queen mega-fan’s name?”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he states proudly and winks.

Louis’ stomach clenches, and right up until the very last second he refuses to believe this could possibly be happening.

They hear it live through the Garbage Truck’s stereo when the DJ crows, _“Alright, Harry!_ Looks like you and Louis are headed off to see _QUEEN_ at the Winterland Ballroom this evening! And take a nap before you come with KOME 98.5— I’m sure that trip of yours has you both tired out!”

“Oh, my God,” Louis whispers, eyes wide but unseeing. “Oh, my God. _Oh, my God.”_ He’s sweating, legitimately _sweating,_  and his hands are shaking, and they’re—he’s— _they’re going to see Queen tonight!_

Harry stays on the phone for a few more minutes, presumably finding out all the details, and Louis just sits there with his back against the front wheel of the Garbage Truck, legs straight out in front of him, and _stares_ uncomprehendingly.

It’s only when Harry hangs up and comes running over, pulling Louis up by the hand and literally lifting him off the ground with the strength of his hug, that it really hits him.

“We’re gonna see Queen,” he mumbles, and Harry kisses the words right off of his lips. “I love you,” he says against Harry’s mouth. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love.” Harry just laughs and murmurs it back until they run out of kisses and words and the electric buzzing in Louis’ chest settles just enough for him to see the situation more clearly.

It’s then that a disconcerting and entirely new thought hits him. He whacks Harry on the shoulder until he sets him down, and there’s a pit in his stomach because— because he can’t believe that Harry’s done this, and that he did it for _Louis,_ and Louis wants this _so badly,_ has wanted it for months and months—

He turns to Liam, Niall, and Zayn— his friends. The best friends he’s ever had—and a week ago, maybe even two days ago, he doesn’t know if the thought he’s just had would’ve even occurred to him. If had he been told that in the end that it would come down to two out of five, what he would have done.

It’s a reality now, and his brain is telling him that it’s a very clear, very obvious choice, but—

His heart and the screw on his ankle say otherwise.

“I can’t—” he stutters, “Harry—” he turns to look at Harry and then spins back around to the others again, a little wild, a little off kilter. “I can’t go without you guys,” he says weakly.

Liam looks like he’s about to protest, and Zayn probably doesn’t really care either way, but Niall just looks back at him thoughtfully for a good long second, and says, “Okay. So, I think I’ve got an idea.”

✘✘✘✘✘

Three stops for directions and a half hour later, the Garbage Truck is parked outside of KOME 98.5 FM, and Louis, Harry, Liam, and Zayn sit in confusion while Niall runs inside to enact whatever mysterious plan he’s concocted.

A disturbingly short amount of time later, he comes sprinting back out, red faced and with one hand behind his back.

He stops short of the open door and then wipes his mouth with his free hand. “So…” he says, wiggling his eyebrows slyly, “Guess who just blew the DJ for three more tickets?” The hand behind his back comes flying up, revealing, sure enough, three white and orange paper stubs.

The first thought that comes to Louis’ mind is, _e_ _ven the goddamn DJ for KOME 98.5 is—_

He turns to Harry in shock and yells, _“I’m a fucking gay magnet!”_ and Harry looks at him like he has no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s okay— he’ll explain later.

And then, “Niall Horan, _you— motherfucking—legend!”_ Louis shouts, pouncing on him. “What the _fuck?”_

Niall just shrugs proudly. “Was bound to happen sooner or later. Figured I should at least put my mouth to use for the cause, you know?”

“We’re going to see Queen!” Louis yells, turning back to Zayn and Liam’s equally shocked faces. _"_ _We’re all going to see Queen!”_

**⩶**

**1 Hour Until the Concert**

**⩶**

“This is incredible,” Louis says for the millionth time. Harry’s next to him, every inch of their arms and legs pressed together like a seam, and they’re sitting in the Garbage Truck just around the corner from the Winterland because they’ve got time to kill until doors open, what with their fancy radio station tickets taking away the stress of general admission. _“This is incredible!”_ His words are directed at Harry, and at Niall, and at the universe for good measure. At anyone and anything really. At whatever it is that’s brought him to this place.

Everyone’s in the backseat. Niall with his feet on Harry’s lap, Liam looking completely stupefied to find his own hand currently intertwined with Zayn’s, and Zayn in that _fucking_ stupid vest of his, smiling dreamily like he’s gotten all he’s ever wanted.

“This is still _it,_ you know,” Harry reminds him, because somebody’s got to do it, and if there has to be _someone_ to talk about After, Louis’ just happy that it’s finally Harry.

“So…what’s the plan, then?” Niall asks, like anyone in this piece of shit van suddenly has any idea what they’re doing.

Louis looks at the people that surround him, at the four strangers he welcomed into his life and into his car over the past ten days— _at Harry,_ who is beaming, just absolutely beaming— and he says, “You know…why don't we think about it in the morning, guys.”

It’s not evasive, and it’s not insincere. It’s a promise, he thinks. A reversal of the entire day— _this the end, this is end, this is the end._ They’ve still got a show to enjoy and entire night ahead of them. Now isn’t the time.

But they’ll get there. They’ll definitely get there.

Harry scoots somehow even closer, and for not the first time on this trip, and for definitely not the last time in Louis’ life, he breaks into an impossibly fond smile and wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “You know,” he says. “California’s a pretty big state. And we _do_ have a car…how about…” he taps his chin seriously, “we go for a ride?” he suggests with a grin. “I’ll drive?”

Everyone breaks into laughter and groans, and Louis shoves Harry’s arm off his shoulder. “Fuck off, Styles!” he curses, and then pulls him back in for another kiss.

By the time 6:55 rolls around and the doors to the Winterland are just about to open, they’re no closer to knowing what tomorrow will bring, or even, with their luck, the next few hours.

Liam bonks him on the head as he climbs out of the van, only just now releasing Zayn’s hand, and his mind must be right where Louis’ is because he smiles and says, “Hey. It is what it is, Lou. Right?”

“Yeah…” Louis says and turns to Harry one more time. Harry smiles and winks, and it’s not that everything’s okay, but— Harry blows him a kiss and hops outside along Liam— it’s that maybe, just maybe, they’re all alright. “It is what it is.”

They walk as a group over to the Winterland, straight past the lines, straight through the doors, right up to will call where Harry proudly announces his name and receives two ticket stubs in return.

And then all that’s left is a pair of double doors that lead straight into the theater and the beginning to something new and uncertain and undoubtedly full of adventure.

“So,” Louis claps his hands together and catches Harry’s eyes. They smile in unison, and there it goes again, Louis thinks. Yet another moment he’ll always remember. “Let’s do this, then.” He grins at each of the friends around him. “I think we’ve got a show to see or something.”

 

  
[Atlas At Last](https://imgbb.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Extremely Important:** [Surrender by Cheap Trick](https://open.spotify.com/track/2ccUQnjjNWT0rsNnsBpsCA) must be blasted at the conclusion of this fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> That song inspired this story exactly one year to the date before it was finished, and it didn't make into the fic as more than a quick cameo, but trust me-- the ending of that song is exactly how this story would end in a movie.
> 
> There is absolutely _no way_ that I would've gotten there without the lovely youwilll not only serving as my beta, but also literally resurrecting this fic and pushing me to finish it. Thank you for the phone calls, the skype calls, and endless texts, for literally slashing and burning all of my flowy clause clause clause sentences, for telling me that this was a story worth finishing.
> 
>  
> 
> Please take the time to follow [youngandmadeof](youngandmadeof.tumblr.com) who did the beautiful art for this story. Follow her on [twitter](https://twitter.com/youngandmadeof) [tumblr](youngandmadeof.tumblr.com) and [instagram](https://t.co/4QLOrU8rjr).
> 
>  
> 
> **_please_ leave a comment. just a short sentence will make my day/week/year. **
> 
> If you've ever enjoyed anything that I've ever written and are in a position to be generous, considering donating a literal dollar or two to the [venmo](http://venmo.com/MaryClare-Zimmermann) of this poor grad student, high school teacher, and aspiring Pacific Coast Trail hiker (5 month hikes are expensive. Who knew!) It would mean the absolute world. Thank you!
> 
> And I'll just leave you with this [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1263403080/playlist/7FadxUZe14k1qo9pQcKszx) again. Thank you all.


End file.
